Kenneth Roy Helle
My brother Don asked me if I would write a story about our dad, so I did and here it goes. First I had Don send me a copy of the poem Dad wrote. When I got the poem, I couldn't read through it without getting choked up. On the third time, I made it through. That poem means a lot to me for many reasons. It tells one hell of a story. If you knew dad, he could tell some tall tales and leave you wondering if he was pulling your leg or not. Dad was a little mysterious to most with those piercing blue eyes and a big smile. Lee tells about Grandpa Don, and the boys driving nails with a 22 rifle. Dad done the same thing with us boys. He took a lot pride in his shooting skills "pistol or rifle". I remember standing in the lane shooting walnuts as fast we could from the top of that tree. Dad always had a lot of dogs. Some good, and some not so good. Dad took his dogs very serious. He lost some so called friends, because of what they said about those dogs. "Jerry Philips" being one of them. He did everything imaginable to those dogs to get them to quit running deer. Noting ever worked. He finally started to "play ball" so to speak. Three strikes and your out. "Dirt Nap". Dad and mom even went to Highland Kansas to get dogs. Don and I both made trips to the airport to pick up dogs. Harold Stabb told Dad that in every mans life he would own one dog that was above and beyond the rest. That dog would become a measuring stick, and no other dog would ever measure up. Apache was that dog for Dad. See footnote When we were kids, we used to split a lot of wood in the summer and winter. Hell it seemed like that's all we ever did. Don and I would never tell Dad that we were going to catch up with him, so we could go mess around. But low and behold we would wakeup to the sound of a chainsaw. We would get dressed and go outside and there Dad was standing, grinning ear to ear. He'd say you boys swing those malls like your beatin' snakes. Now that I am older and have kids of my own . I look back and those were the good ol' days. I often think of the good times Dad, Don, and I had splitting wood . After I joined the Navy Seabees, there were lots of miles between us, and we seemed to grow closer. I guess that's where the boy became a man. I started to see things differently. Seeing all those other guys "those lazy S. O. B.'s". I really started to appreciate the hard work ethic that Dad had preached to us. I remember coming home on leave and working with Dad. He would help me fix a saw or anything I needed, and I would ask him what I owed him, and he always said "it's a fathers' responssibility". When I had to go back to the Navy, he always took me to the airport. On the way, he'd asked me what he owed me, and I'd say "Nothing, it's a son's responsibility. Dad and I spent a lot of time hunting deer and coyotes together . Dad always liked going deer hunting, in the anticipation of " the big one". We drank alot of coffee and ate a bunch of peanuts that's when we would talk . You name it, we talked about it. He was very observant person he would notice the littlest things, a spec of blood in the snow, or even a leaf that was moved. One thing Dad didn't like was snakes. He'd say he " hated them with a passion". The only good one was a dead one. On the other hand, one thing he loved was the feeling of power. When we were kids, Dad and Mom took us to Florida, and at the airport we watched fighter jets take off and land. He always said he'd love to fly one, just so he could "buzz" over Jerry Phillips while he was cultivating corn and hit the after-burners and peel the paint off the hood of the tractor. But to make a long story short. Apache died in the prime of his life. Dad also died in the prime of his life. I know that Grandpa Don and Dad have met in fox-hunter heaven. Jeff HelleKenneths dad (Don) also had that one fox hound that stood head and shoulders above the rest of the pack. A black and tan hound named "Daisy" we lived back in the lane so the time period would have been 1942 thru the early 1950's.
Lee
