TELLING MY FATHER'S STORY ISN'T EASY
My Dad Died 50 Years Ago
St. Louis, MO - July 13, 2022 - My dad deserves to be remembered and to have his story told. My father died 50 years ago today at the age of 29. He died alone in hospital bed at an Air Force Base just outside of Madrid Spain. He left behind a grieving 26-year-old widow, a five- year-old son and a four-year-old daughter.
Last year, I promised myself I would use this anniversary to help tell his story. Candidly, I’m disappointed in myself for not being more prepared to tell his story today. I have no one to blame but myself.
I procrastinated. And I didn’t follow our proprietary STORYSMART system. Shame on me. He deserves better. In a weird sort of way, my failure to do it helps me better understand the challenge we face as a company helping other families.
Telling my own father’s story isn’t easy. Especially fifty years after he died. Many of the people who really knew him are dead too.
I wanted to share his story today because I’ve always been haunted by not really knowing my dad. Sure, I have a few memories. And I’ve heard numerous stories over the years. But that isn’t the same as getting to grow up with him in my life.
I don’t want this post to be about me. I had wanted it to be about him. I wanted to share more of his story, which I believe would be compelling in the hands of a better storyteller.
But the reality is that I didn’t do my work in time. I procrastinated until the end of last week before I made my trek to the basement to pull out our boxed up family museum. The Watermon family archive is a confederation of boxes of photos, documents and other ephemera. I suspect my collection of memories looks akin to that of other families.
Boxes, scrapbooks or albums of memories.
Our archives are not the organized collection of the St. Louis Cardinals. I should have Paula Homan on retainer and the Digital Archive Group or HeritageWerks on speed dial.
I’ll let you watch the video where I take ownership of my procrastination and do my best to share some details of my dad’s story. I promise to spend the time to piece more of my dad’s story together and use the journey to get my dad’s story assembled as an opportunity to both memorialize him and provide insights to others who seek to tell their loved one’s story.
My personal path and story drive my passion for STORYSMART. My story is like so many others. I wish I had a better to story to share about my dad when my son asks me about “grandpa in heaven.”
Doing a story justice requires work. It requires preparation, organization and a certain amount of collaboration. A good story has a simple structure with a clear narrative.
You need a skilled storyteller to weave a coherent narrative that connects with an audience. You could stumble into telling a decent story, but it is unlikely.
I see bad storytelling every day. Just look at all the poor videos people share online. There is a difference between a good movie and one that misses the mark. We can all spot it, can’t we?
Doing justice to my dad’s story will require more effort on my part. I am assuming the role of an interested historian. Over time, as I do my research and digitization work, I will share individual vignettes of his story.
I will follow an intellectual framework akin to what we are putting in place for families and athlete and celebrity clients. It will start with me digging into documents, photographs etc. and digitizing them so they can be used to tell his story. I will get interviews with the handful of folks still alive that knew him.
I’ll use the effort to help you and others wishing to preserve and share their loved ones story.
In the meantime, here are the basics about my dad’s story.
Ronald Wayne Green a.k.a. Wayne Donald Green was born in Bryan Texas on April 21, 1943.
His mother, Serina Mary Green, was from Missouri and his father Mr. Presley (I don’t know his first name) was from Mississippi. The couple was unmarried. I believe my dad’s father was a college student.
For the record, while I do like Jelly Donuts and have struggled with my weight most of my life, I don’t know if I’m related to the King of Rock ‘N Roll. That would require more research.
On February 1, 1946, the Children’s Aid Society of Missouri took custody of my father. When the state removed him from his mother’s care, my dad was so malnourished that he couldn’t walk. He was diagnosed with Rickets, a disease caused by a vitamin D deficiency that softens or weakens bones.
Irvin and Ruby Watermon over Overland, Missouri became my dad’s foster parents, providing him love and care. He began to walk and thrive in their care.
The Watermon’s formally adopted my father on January 13, 1960 when he was 16 years old.
My dad went to Ritenour High School, where he lettered in Football. He loved the game of football. After graduating High School, he took classes to become athletic trainer and followed a path into coaching football.
He joined the Air Force and was deployed oversees in both Libya and Japan.
While in Japan he fell in love with Judo, where he progressed from a white belt to a black belt. He also fell in love with Japan and the country’s people.
While I don’t have the exact sequence of events down, it was in this period that he started seeing my mother – Mary Ann Tierney of Lemay.
I have hundreds of letters between the two to go through as part of my due diligence in telling his story, as well as hers.
My parents married in 1966. I was born in April 1967 at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs where my dad was stationed. My sister was born the following year.
My dad was transferred to Torrejón Air Base in Madrid Spain. Our family moved to the base. I’m not entirely clear about what my dad’s job entailed, but know he was a Staff Sergeant at the base. He also drove a school bus and served as a coach of the High School Football team.
My earliest memories where in Spain. And my only memories of my father were from this period. We lived in base housing and had a white picket fenced yard across from a field where Gitanos (Gypsies) grazed sheep.
I remember going to high school football games and traveling a bit within Spain. I believe my parents loved their time in Madrid and know they entertained family visitors including my mom’s parents.
My dad started to suffer from headaches of a then unknown cause. I have conflicting accounts on the exact circumstances of my father’s death. I know he went to sleep in a hospital bed and never woke up. My mom was in the room next door, being treated for a broken ankle. Those are the facts as I know them.
He died Friday July 13, 1972.
A memorial service was held July 14th at the Air Force Base. My sister and I did not attend my dad’s funeral in Spain. Or the service held here in the U.S. I wish we had but understand why my mom didn’t want us to be there.
We moved to St. Louis after my father’s death, living with my Aunt & Uncle’s family for a few months while my mom regrouped. Over the years we heard many stories about our dad from loved ones and friends. While I have a strong sense of who he was, I still long to know more.
I will do my best to preserve and share his story. I urge you to do the same for those that matter most to you.
Everyone deserves to be remembered and have their story told.
