Tell me, what’s in
Your little black bag
That travels
Near and far?
We pile in the wagon
Wait for minutes
Maybe hours
Seems like forever
Cramped quarters quarrel
Averted by a promise
An ice cream cone
Perhaps?
Eyes glued to the window
Hoping they’ll be better soon
So the little black bag,
and its owner, will return.
It seems like only yesterday when we did just that: four of six children, 2 years apart, would pile into my father’s Chevy station wagon to accompany him on “house calls.” This was back in the 1960s when house calls were a common occurrence among general practice MDs in the upper Midwest. Dad carried his medical supplies in a black leather “doctor bag.” He was dedicated to his practice and patients in a way I admired but never wanted to emulate. We spent hundreds of hours, summers and weekends, waiting in his office, the hospital waiting room, and on house calls; reading Highlights magazines from cover to cover, watching the people go by. But it was all worth it, because we were waiting for Dad.
J. Kent Tweeten, M.D., was born in Rochelle, Illinois on December 17, 1915 to an authoritarian Lutheran minister from Iowa, and his wife, Maud. He respected his father, but deeply admired his mild-mannered mother who was raised by family friends in a sod house on the plains of South Dakota in the 1880s after her immigrant parents and siblings succumbed to an epidemic when she was only one year old. The childhood death of his youngest brother, Paul, influenced his interest in pursuing medicine as a profession.
Shortly after graduating from medical school, Kent received his military orders to report for active duty in the U.S. Medical Corps and served in Europe from August 1944 through March 1946. His favorite “war story” was his memory of the evening he spent in a “very nice foxhole” which had been built and occupied by a German soldier the night before.
My father grew up during the depression, but his frugal parents managed to support all three children through college. Dad “paid it forward” by supporting all six of his own children through college. Not going to college was never an option. The value Dad placed on education was that great, yet he never pressured us to attend a specific university or pursue a particular course of study. In his own quiet, steady way, Dad held high expectations of each of us to do our best, and we never wanted to disappoint him.
Mother died when my youngest sister was only 4, which increased my father’s responsibility that much more to become both Provider and Parent. As stoic as his parents, Dad had minimal assistance around the house (other than from us kids with regular ‘chores’) and never remarried. I vividly remember Dad scrubbing the kitchen and bathroom floors on multiple occasions as I finished homework in high school. He never complained, and didn’t expect us to, either. I recall when he finally replaced our thread-bare wool carpeting, only after a family friend commented that it might be time for a change. I honestly don’t think he had the time (or inclination) to even notice the wear and tear! His Depression-era and Midwestern values seem fleeting at best in today’s fast-paced consumer-driven society, but he prepared us well for the “Great Recession.”
Dad also always paid cash for his cars (and paid off his mortgage in about 5 years on a house he owned for almost 50). He taught us to balance our checkbooks (to the penny!), limit credit cards, and pay them off monthly to avoid interest charges. Frugal? Yes. But at age 95, he is still living life on his terms, to the extent his body will let him, without financial strife. Growing old has its challenges, but he’s wearing his age well.
Thanks, Dad, for teaching your children well. You’re my hero. Happy Father’s Day!
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