Frank Diffendorfer was a simple man.
He grew up on a farm in northern Ohio, near the little town of Hayesville, population 400. Haysville is not too far from Ashland. Ashland isn’t too far from Mansfield. Drive 91 minutes north of Mansfield and you’ll find Cleveland. I hear the economy has hit Cleveland hard.
Anyway, Frank married Anna and they had two kids, Ralph and Martha. I knew everyone in the family but was closest to Martha.
She was my mom. So…Frank was my grandpa.
Everyone mentioned in this story (except for me) has passed on, most of them years ago. But I often think of each one. Lately, I’ve thought often of Frank.
Like I said he was a simple man. After farming for many years, he moved the family into town (Hayesville) and worked as a carpenter, building houses and an occasional store or barn. He was mayor of Hayesville, which while not a stepping stone to national politics did reflect the trust his neighbors placed in him.
Being a simple man, Frank was rather obvious. There was no mystery, no nuance about him. A deal was sealed by a handshake. A promise could not be broken. Speak well of others or keep your mouth shut. Work hard, take care of your family, marry one woman and honor her with your life, go to church on Sunday and be grateful for the blessings of God.
Frank died long before Ronald Reagan became president. But Frank would have liked him. Both believed government should be as small as possible and intrude in the lives of people as little as necessary.
As mayor of Hayesville, Frank made sure the traffic light worked, the potholes filled and the trash collected. There were no social programs, no welfare, no environmental regulations, no inspectors.
But Frank “ruled” Hayesville during the Great Depression. And despite the lack of government programs, people in need got help and the hungry had enough to eat.
My mom told me that her parents had guests for dinner often during the Great Depression. They tended to be men who needed a shave, a bath and a hot meal. They were just passing through and would come to the door for help.
Frank was just a poor carpenter, but nobody left hungry. It would never have occurred to Frank and Anna to send a hungry soul to the government to get help. He wasn’t the first carpenter to think that way.
That’s why I’ve been thinking of my grandpa. And I know that were he alive today, watching our government grow and grow, tax and tax, spend and spend, he would be deeply troubled. He would wonder why the government is taking the money people could better use themselves. He would fear there wouldn’t be enough left to support the church and the needy who might knock on the door.
Frank would scratch his head and wonder why we had put aside personal charity and compassion and farmed it out to government bureaucracy. I wonder the same thing, as I find myself thinking more and more like Frank as I get older.
When I was a little boy and we visited grandma and grandpa, I’d often sit beside Frank on his couch. He always sat on the right end, which gave him the most direct line of sight to the television.
He would put his feet on the coffee table. Nobody objected to grandpa putting his feet on the table. It had a marble top. He said that was so his shoes wouldn’t hurt it.
Perhaps, but mom hollered if I put MY feet on the coffee table. I didn’t care because there always was a green covered bowl on the table opposite grandpa’s feet. And grandma always filled the bowl with candy I really liked before we came to visit. Mom could keep my feet off the table but she couldn’t keep my hands out of the candy bowl.
So grandpa and I would sit. And we wouldn’t say much. But it was OK just to be with grandpa.
Sometimes, if it was after a hard day of work, grandpa would doze off, although he would tell me he was “just resting my eyes.”
But he would perk up when the evening news came on. And I could always tell when there was something that bothered him. He wouldn’t make much comment. He wouldn’t raise his voice. I never heard him swear.
But if the news involved higher taxes, bigger government or waste of funds, he would shake his head and say “for the love of our country.”
If he were alive and watching the news these days, the country would be getting a vast outpouring of his love.
And I often think of that as I’m sitting in my office in my “dad” chair (it actually is the chair my dad sat in to read the evening paper when I was a boy). I like to listen to talk radio and hear the various commentaries on what the government is up to.
If I stretch out my legs I can put my feet on the same marble table that once sat in front of grandpa’s couch. Listening to the debate about the national debt and increased spending, I’ve been shaking my head a lot and saying, “for the love of our country.”
