From the Heart
Let me tell you about the man who lived on 12th Street for 53 years.
His voice was soft. I never heard him raise it.
His name was James Ellis Hart. He was my dad.
Trust me when I say that I gave him a few reasons to raise his voice. I could be a bit of a stubborn child. I never heard him swear.
When I was a kid, he took me pretty much wherever he went. The barber shop. The car repair shop. The bait shop. His friends brought their sons. My dad brought his daughter.
He told me I was a pretty little girl. He told me I was smart. He told me I could do anything I set my mind to do.
He believed in me. Oh, what a gift that was.
I can still hear his words when I told him in 2004 that I would be selling cars. He was lying in a hospital bed at Riverview. He pointed his finger at me and said, “Jan, you can do it!” He knew I was scared. He never lived to see me succeed.
Dad passed away June 28, 2006. It was one month before I started writing for The Noblesville Daily Ledger. He never read anything I wrote.
He instilled in me that you do the job you are paid to do. You do it to the best of your ability. You treat the people around you like you want to be treated. He instilled in me a strong work ethic.
He taught me that complaining fell on deaf ears and only made the job more difficult.
Dad was raised in the hills of Kentucky. His family raised tobacco and Dad knew it was a hard way to make a living. He wanted something different, so when he and my mom got married at 16, he headed to what he called the Promised Land … Indiana.
Dad worked in a tomato factory in New Castle. He worked overtime to make enough money to send for my mom. Many hours with very little pay. Eventually they were together and found their way to Noblesville where they both worked at Firestone.
In 1953 they bought a little house on 12th Street for $5,500. In 1959 they paid off their mortgage. I found the papers that showed the mortgage was paid in full in six years. My grandson, Matthew, and his family live in that house now.
Dad could fix about anything. His garage still holds nuts and bolts and nails and glue and every kind of tool that was made in the 50s, 60s and 70s. He didn’t need any of the newfangled tools that came out later. He didn’t believe in getting something new if he could fix what was broken.
When I peek my head into his garage, I can still hear him winding the antique clocks he repaired for people.
The smell of Old Spice Cologne always brings back memories of my dad getting ready for church. I wonder if heaven smells a little like Old Spice.
I drive down Division Street and look at the empty space where Firestone once stood. The forlorn space gives me a feel of sadness. So many memories. The smell of hot rubber. The clanging sounds coming from the open windows in the scorching summers. I remember Dad being a supervisor and having to cross the picketers whenever the union went on strike. The strikers were his friends and crossing those lines was never easy.
People who worked for my dad said he was a fair boss. I never heard anyone say a bad word about him.
And that soft-spoken voice of his? I can still hear it telling me, “Jan, you can do whatever you put your mind to do.” I hear it as I write my book.
And more than anything else I remember that he loved me and … he believed in me.
Thank you, Dad and Happy Father’s Day!