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COLUMN BY MATT PRANGER |
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Growler, hook some heavenly whoppers
posted 04/14/2006
Don't feel sorry for me. A painted rock discovered in his dresser sums up why: It reads "World's Greatest Dad." And, to me, two brothers and three sisters, he was.
To explain why The Growler was great, I need to start at his beginning. David Starck Pranger was born the second son of Charles and Anna (Starck) Pranger April 14, 1932 in Clinton, Iowa . He grew up in then growing manufacturing-based city on the Mississippi River. While his older brother Charles preferred books, Pa enjoyed the outdoors, especially fishing the backwaters of The River with his father. While attending Catholic schools for a dozen years, he specialized in pranks, teasing and driving cars too fast. He probably would've spent more time in detention but even the sisters of the Blessed Virgin Mary (BVM) -- affectionately known as Black Veiled Monsters -- weren't immune to his charisma. He graduated from St. Mary's High School in 1950, though he was fond of saying he attended Our Lady of Angels and Mount St. Clare -- the city's all-girls academies. In preparation of taking over his father's accounting business, he briefly attended Iowa State College, now known as Iowa State . Academia and Pa didn't compute -- he was plenty smart enough, particularly in math, but he couldn't stand to be cooped up. He enlisted in the Navy, serving during the Korean War. Though he failed to master swimming during hundreds of hours on the Mississippi, he was assigned to an aircraft carrier's helicopter rescue team. That didn't keep him from adeptly fishing out Corsair pilots from the Pacific. I'm pretty sure he said his crew saved all but one only from the drink. While stationed on Guam, he finished runner-up for his weight -- probably 125 or 130 pounds -- in the fleet's wrestling tournament. That feat would serve him well as father who loved grappling with children. Often he would have a child hanging from his neck, one on each arm and leg before he let us take him down and pin him. Upon returning to Clinton after the war, he noticed the little sister of his best friend (Charles McDonnell) had grown into a lovely young woman. David S. Pranger and Teresa M. McDonnell were wed July 14, 1956. Being good Catholics, they "rhythmically" produced six children. First came Pam, then Kathy, Bill, Matt (the humble and well-adjusted middle son), Lois and Mark. I'm fond of saying, when asked how many brothers and sisters I have, "Two Too Many." Dad worked a variety jobs -- milkman, mailman, maintenance man, insurance salesman, elevator repairman, corn processing plant worker, custodian, auto parts runner, bartender. Way too often he worked a second job to support his growing family. Pa, and Ma, who also worked, went without so their children could have more. My parents rarely went out to dinner and vacations were usually family camping trips. They purchased two new vehicles after the 1950s -- a 1965 Ford station wagon and a new Dodge pickup 30 years later. If he wasn't working, Pa Pranger was likely at one of his children's activities. The Growler didn't just attend home games; he went to nearly all the away contests too. More than a few times he would watch a game and then work a night shift. Of course his children preferred to sit in other sections of the bleachers at road games. Pa voiced his objections with the officiating by yelling, "Homer." That habit at eventually earned him the same nickname as his taunt -- "Homer." Even after his children left the nest Pa went to great lengths to help his children. He drove a Toyota Tercel to Seattle so his second son would have more reliable transportation than a 1962 Pontiac Tempest for his commute. He even packed the same son and his belongings in his truck and towed the Tercel to Skagway, Alaska. That son realizes he should've been more grateful, relishing the adventure instead of worrying about a deadline. Pa's generosity and compassion extended beyond his family. He had a soft spot for the less fortunate and those down on their luck. He loved the mutts as much or more than the purebreds. In addition to compassion and sacrifice, Pa Pranger taught his children to stick with their convictions. He was fired during a wildcat strike in the 1970s. His loyalty to unions didn't waver even during the subsequent difficult financial times. Dad taught his children not to be overly concerned with what others thought of you. From the mid-1950s he sported his signature flattop for all but a year. Eventually, The Growler was hired by the city's sewer department. A neighbor taught his children to scream, "Norton's home," when they heard Dad's old black Ford pickup rumble up. Dad would imitate Art Carney's "Honeymooners" character: "It was up to here, Ralphie." Pa retired and spent his too few golden years tending his garden -- his tomatoes were local legends -- visiting children and grandchildren, and camping. Ma and Pa would pull into a campground and about an hour later he would be on a first-name basis with many of campers. He also enjoyed sitting on a park bench along the Mississippi River, or bellying up to the bar at the Eagles Club, drinking coffee at the local supermarket's deli, jawing with friends. Dad's easy-going demeanor endeared him to most who met him. Though many of his family and friends passed before him, 400-some people attended his visitation or funeral. Retirement brought more opportunities for what Ma thinks was his first love -- fishing. Raising six children he taught him the patience for the sport. Though, once he became too disgusted to continue an outing along the Elk River, a tributary to the Mississippi. Dad had set up four poles when a certain 5-year-old middle son wound back, cast, purportedly saying, "I'm going to catch a whopper." His sinker, hook and bait sailed over the other lines. He immediately started reeling it, snagging and snarling all the other lines. Pa cut the lines and packed up the gear. I became a better angler but preferred to be more active, canoeing, water skiing, swimming. My father never pushed me to spend more time fishing with him. When I was younger I wish I'd realized how important it was to him.
Six months before Dad died I was fortunate to share in his favorite pastime. Even though he was in considerable pain, he insisted on traveling to the middle of Iowa to his favorite fishing hole. After two hours, none of the other anglers on the lake had even a nibble. We decided to keep trying for about 10 minutes before heading in. Just being on the water with my Dad on a calm sunny fall day was a delight. If I knew we had many more fishing trips in the future, I would have been content. However, I knew this could be our last fishing trip together. I didn't want to get skunked and prayed for just two little fish. A few minutes later my bobber disappeared and I hauled in a nice bluegill. Pa hooked one a few minutes later. At that moment I was as thrilled as a 5-year-old catching "a whopper." My Dad won't be memorialized in any history books. He didn't compile a multi-million-dollar fortune but he bestowed priceless riches on his children. He was just a really good father, "The Greatest." Happy Birthday, Pa. I'd rather be fishing with you. |
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