An Ordinary Man

By Janice Lane Palko

The most extraordinary thing in the world is an ordinary man and an ordinary woman and their ordinary children. G. K. Chesterton

My dad died on August 11. His name was Donald Lane, but everyone knew his as “Beans.” He kind of snuck up on the world when he was born on September 24, 1935. It was a home birth during the renowned heavyweight boxing match when Joe Louis knocked out the former champ Max Baer in Yankee Stadium. My grandfather was listening to the match on the radio downstairs while grandma was  giving birth.

They had already had three sons, and she was hoping for a daughter. But she gave birth to twin boys, my late Uncle Tom and my dad. “What do you call this,” Grandma supposedly said when she was informed that she had two more boys, “when you pray for a girl and you get two more boys?” The doctor replied, “I’d call it quits.”

When I had twins, 52 years later, I, and my babies were frequently monitored to make sure the babies were not varying vastly in size. Nearly 91 years ago, they couldn’t do that, so my Uncle Tom arrived in this world much larger than my dad, who snuck in after him. Their size discrepancy remained that way throughout their lives. It never bothered my dad that he was smaller. He’d often say, “Hey, Tom, be glad I was born or you would have had two heads.”

Uncle Tom, my godfather, grew to be about 6’2’ and my dad topped out at about 5’10. They called the twins “Pork and Beans.” The “Pork” nickname didn’t stick with Uncle Tom, but “Bean” stuck with my dad. 

Uncle Tom went on to play college football at the University of Wyoming, and my dad became a sheet metal worker. One of his proudest works was putting on the retractable roof of the old Civic Arena. My dad was married to my mom for 67 years, and had four children, nine grandchildren, and five great-grandchildren. 

Many years ago, I wrote an article about all the things I learned from my dad—from how to wallpaper, solder a broken earring, make a fist, drive, keep score at a baseball game, plant a garden, and pour a beer correctly so you didn’t end up with a glass of foam.

From him I also learned that he had no fashion sense and had no instinct for cooking. Once, when my mother was out at a shower when I was a teen and I was trying to cook dinner, he told me that I needed to add some vanilla to the gravy. I was no Julia Child, but even at 16, I knew vanilla did not belong in gravy. We referred to the pancakes he tried to cook us once as the “Terrible Pancakes” as they were Steelers colors, black on the outside and gold on the inside. 

He was growing weaker as he grew older, but on Sunday, August 9, he wasn’t doing well so he was admitted to the hospital. However, he seemed to rally, and his doctor planned to send him home on Tuesday, August 11. Monday night he was holding a conversation with my brother and sister-in-law when they visited him in the hospital. On Tuesday, when he was supposed to go home, the nurse went in to get him ready, and she discovered that he was gone. He snuck out of life like he had come in.

My dad never won a Nobel Prize, a Super Bowl, or a Medal. However, as we greeted visitors at the funeral home and reminisced about him, we thought of how funny he was, how kids loved him, and how many of them who were not blood nieces or nephews referred to him as “Uncle Beans.” We recalled how many game rooms, kitchens, furnaces, and roofs he installed for family and friends. 

However, the final thing my dad taught me was that the sum of a life is not measured by recognitions and rewards. My dad was an ordinary man, but he was also a good son, brother, husband, father, father-in-law, grandfather, great-grandfather, uncle, friend, neighbor, worker, Catholic, citizen, and human being. 

Not everyone can claim that. We were fortunate that his ordinary life made an extraordinary one for all of us. Rest in Peace, Daddy.