Tweet
On 15 October 2010 yet another Vietnam Veteran died from his exposure to Agent Orange...
He was my father, his name was Richard Pinkney Spake (1 April 1946 - 15 October 2010). His funeral was Wednesday 20 October 2010, and the surviving members of his unit came and learned just what kind of man he had been after 'coming home', and none where surprised with the life he had led.
You see, My Dad was the perfect example of what kind of a person the Spake family produces. We Love Our God, we Love Our Country, we Love Our Family and we Love Our Guns. We keep going until we can't go any further... and push ourselves to keep going until we die. We keep taking what ever is thrown at us and we adapt and overcome, and keep pushing forward NO MATTER What.
My father ran into burning buildings to save lives... people stood and told how they watched as dad pulled the driver out of a burning race car that was about to explode, and that he had gotten the driver out seconds before it exploded.
His squad mates told us how they watched him save a drowning pregnant woman right under the guns of a VC patrol... He pulled her out of the water on the VC side, delivered the baby... and waited for them to shoot him. Instead the VC commander looked at his Lieutenant and waved his hand as his people faded away. When dad got back on the right side of the river... the LT said he didn't know if he should give him a medal or put him on report, and dad just said "Neither..."
And when the damn leftist hippies spat in his face and called him a babykiller when he came home, it hurt him so bad... that he didn't mean to hurt me when he mocked me when i came home from war with my medals on in uniform. just to make him proud. He apologized for that right after he started his PTSD therapy back in 2006.
The VA paper-pushers refused to admit that he had been exposed to Agent Orange, even though his records showed he was in country where it was used (and had the paperwork showing he had sprayed that crap in sprayers around the firebase to kill weeds and the like). And to add insult to injury they claimed that 'if that exposure was going to show up, it would have showed up 13 months after exposure'... and claimed his PTSD wasn't related to his time in the War.
They had each of us kids speak about him, what he meant to us. How he was just like all us Spake's... that we love others more than we love ourselves. That I learned from my father that you stand up for what you believe to be true, and to hell with the consequences. That we Spake's should have the cockroach for our totem animal, because like them.. it takes a hell of a lot to kill us, and we just keep going until we just can't go anymore. But even then we keep TRYING to keep going.
In his first career, Dad had built three golf courses, and one of which is on the Masters every year. He loved that job being the grounds keeper of golf courses. He was actually asked to give advice my other country clubs... and offered so many times a better salary at other clubs. But he stayed true to Fairfield in the Mountains... so much so that when they betrayed his loyalty it destroyed him. He was so heartbroken he stopped doing anything dealing with being a groundskeeper, and became a general contractor. He built houses instead of golf courses... and he built houses that will last for hundreds of years if the people take good care of them.
We lived in the mountains of NC from 1973 till 1988, in an area where the nearest hospital was almost a 2 hour drive down the mountain... That was why he was a volunteer firefighter, a volunteer EMT (back when they did the things Paramedics today aren't allowed to do) and a volunteer Police Officer. He paid out of his own pocket for all that training, providing his own gear, the only thing he didn't pay for was the badge they presented him.
My mother and us kids even got involved in that... i learned how to do everything he and mom did... i was just as qualified as they were when i went into the Navy. And that earned me the respect of the other Sailors and Marines when danger showed up, and people got hurt.... I had already set up the triage of all the wounded when the emergency response medical teams showed up.
They couldn't believe that I ran to the danger, but how couldn't i have I learned that kind of thing from him. The marines knew I had their back, just like my father had the back of so many people in the past.
But that's not all dad did.
Dad dressed up as Santa Claus when arthritis had stopped him form being able to be a contractor, or even do the carpentry woodworking in Granddad's workshop they had built together. He operated the non-profit group "Santa's Cupboard"... it gathered all of the damaged goods from all of the local (within a two hour drive) grocery stores, arranged for the local dealers of sodas and chips and other snackfoods to give us all of the stuff that was going out of date so we could in turn give that to families in need.
They also arranged for a place to store all of the donations (clothes, furniture and other things) until he just couldn't do that anymore. During that time we helped so many families...
Dad did Santa Claus not only for children, he did it for the brain injury clinic here in the area every year. And every year we would take pictures and make sure the children and injured would have the best most happiest time they could. We always had toys for them... some kind of gift for them.
Dad looked like Santa Claus you know. He grew out his hair and beard to look the part. And children all through the year when they saw him would gasp and point and look at their parents and ask "is that Santa"... and dad would just look at them, and give them a little wink. And the parents would smile because their little ones would start behaving better...
My sons loved their "paw-paw".. when Jack started to school he was asked, "what do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas" and he said "That's my Paw-paw" and the teachers asked us about how he was saying Santa was his grandfather. And when they met him, they asked him to come to the class... and he did. The pre-school loved it. And Jack was so popular for it.
Dad and my step-son Jack bonded over watching racing one weekend. He sat beside dad so quiet while watching it with him, clutching two little toy race cars. And only 'spoke' during commercials. When Emma left with the boys dad asked, "Who will I watch races with" I failed him... i failed him so bad when i let them go. Mom said i didn't fail him, that it was Emma lied and tricked me. But it is how i feel.
Everyone said that dad's funeral was one of the most beautiful memorials to anyone they had ever been too.
But I learned from my dad that when it comes down to it, you save lives... even if it puts yours at risk. I just hope i can be as good a man as he.
He was my father, his name was Richard Pinkney Spake (1 April 1946 - 15 October 2010). His funeral was Wednesday 20 October 2010, and the surviving members of his unit came and learned just what kind of man he had been after 'coming home', and none where surprised with the life he had led.
You see, My Dad was the perfect example of what kind of a person the Spake family produces. We Love Our God, we Love Our Country, we Love Our Family and we Love Our Guns. We keep going until we can't go any further... and push ourselves to keep going until we die. We keep taking what ever is thrown at us and we adapt and overcome, and keep pushing forward NO MATTER What.
My father ran into burning buildings to save lives... people stood and told how they watched as dad pulled the driver out of a burning race car that was about to explode, and that he had gotten the driver out seconds before it exploded.
His squad mates told us how they watched him save a drowning pregnant woman right under the guns of a VC patrol... He pulled her out of the water on the VC side, delivered the baby... and waited for them to shoot him. Instead the VC commander looked at his Lieutenant and waved his hand as his people faded away. When dad got back on the right side of the river... the LT said he didn't know if he should give him a medal or put him on report, and dad just said "Neither..."
And when the damn leftist hippies spat in his face and called him a babykiller when he came home, it hurt him so bad... that he didn't mean to hurt me when he mocked me when i came home from war with my medals on in uniform. just to make him proud. He apologized for that right after he started his PTSD therapy back in 2006.
The VA paper-pushers refused to admit that he had been exposed to Agent Orange, even though his records showed he was in country where it was used (and had the paperwork showing he had sprayed that crap in sprayers around the firebase to kill weeds and the like). And to add insult to injury they claimed that 'if that exposure was going to show up, it would have showed up 13 months after exposure'... and claimed his PTSD wasn't related to his time in the War.
They had each of us kids speak about him, what he meant to us. How he was just like all us Spake's... that we love others more than we love ourselves. That I learned from my father that you stand up for what you believe to be true, and to hell with the consequences. That we Spake's should have the cockroach for our totem animal, because like them.. it takes a hell of a lot to kill us, and we just keep going until we just can't go anymore. But even then we keep TRYING to keep going.
In his first career, Dad had built three golf courses, and one of which is on the Masters every year. He loved that job being the grounds keeper of golf courses. He was actually asked to give advice my other country clubs... and offered so many times a better salary at other clubs. But he stayed true to Fairfield in the Mountains... so much so that when they betrayed his loyalty it destroyed him. He was so heartbroken he stopped doing anything dealing with being a groundskeeper, and became a general contractor. He built houses instead of golf courses... and he built houses that will last for hundreds of years if the people take good care of them.
We lived in the mountains of NC from 1973 till 1988, in an area where the nearest hospital was almost a 2 hour drive down the mountain... That was why he was a volunteer firefighter, a volunteer EMT (back when they did the things Paramedics today aren't allowed to do) and a volunteer Police Officer. He paid out of his own pocket for all that training, providing his own gear, the only thing he didn't pay for was the badge they presented him.
My mother and us kids even got involved in that... i learned how to do everything he and mom did... i was just as qualified as they were when i went into the Navy. And that earned me the respect of the other Sailors and Marines when danger showed up, and people got hurt.... I had already set up the triage of all the wounded when the emergency response medical teams showed up.
They couldn't believe that I ran to the danger, but how couldn't i have I learned that kind of thing from him. The marines knew I had their back, just like my father had the back of so many people in the past.
But that's not all dad did.
Dad dressed up as Santa Claus when arthritis had stopped him form being able to be a contractor, or even do the carpentry woodworking in Granddad's workshop they had built together. He operated the non-profit group "Santa's Cupboard"... it gathered all of the damaged goods from all of the local (within a two hour drive) grocery stores, arranged for the local dealers of sodas and chips and other snackfoods to give us all of the stuff that was going out of date so we could in turn give that to families in need.
They also arranged for a place to store all of the donations (clothes, furniture and other things) until he just couldn't do that anymore. During that time we helped so many families...
Dad did Santa Claus not only for children, he did it for the brain injury clinic here in the area every year. And every year we would take pictures and make sure the children and injured would have the best most happiest time they could. We always had toys for them... some kind of gift for them.
Dad looked like Santa Claus you know. He grew out his hair and beard to look the part. And children all through the year when they saw him would gasp and point and look at their parents and ask "is that Santa"... and dad would just look at them, and give them a little wink. And the parents would smile because their little ones would start behaving better...
My sons loved their "paw-paw".. when Jack started to school he was asked, "what do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas" and he said "That's my Paw-paw" and the teachers asked us about how he was saying Santa was his grandfather. And when they met him, they asked him to come to the class... and he did. The pre-school loved it. And Jack was so popular for it.
Dad and my step-son Jack bonded over watching racing one weekend. He sat beside dad so quiet while watching it with him, clutching two little toy race cars. And only 'spoke' during commercials. When Emma left with the boys dad asked, "Who will I watch races with" I failed him... i failed him so bad when i let them go. Mom said i didn't fail him, that it was Emma lied and tricked me. But it is how i feel.
Everyone said that dad's funeral was one of the most beautiful memorials to anyone they had ever been too.
But I learned from my dad that when it comes down to it, you save lives... even if it puts yours at risk. I just hope i can be as good a man as he.
sorry for your loss Nate.
Comment