January 30, 1947 – April 17, 2020
This was my dad. He packed a whole lot into that " - ", between those two dates, more so than most. Much of his story belongs to us, but here is a glimpse of it.
Born to a 15 year old girl, not ready to be a mother, he was raised by his grandparents and brand new older "brother" and "sister". His Uncle Robert and Aunt Olive immediately became his older siblings, Bob and Ollie, thus starting the odd half-generation gap in the Kemmery family tree. As a child, he ran around Port Carbon and spent summers on the back of his cousin's motorcycle. Since his "father", Pop, started and ran Port Carbon Little League (years later, having the field renamed in his honor), dad naturally grew up playing baseball. He continued that passion well beyond playing in Asia by coaching us three boys through our own Little League years. After high school, he joined the Air Force, fought in Vietnam, lived through being shot, and saw much more action than he was ever willing to discuss. It wasn't until much, much later in life that I realized his entire career was not spent in the air traffic control tower as I had thought. It turns out while fighting in war, he was a combat controller and an absolute bad ass. In place of GPS and radar, combat controllers had to covertly get in first, get eyes on a target, locate it on a grid, call in a bombing run or air fire, stay in place, and hope like hell their measurements were correct as they laid in wait from less than 100 yards away. The words used to describe the work of a combat controller include: covert, forward, and austere. Their motto was “First There” as they had to be in position even ahead of the tip of the spear for everything else to proceed. So no, my belief that he lived in a control tower managing flights from a safe distance was not correct. He was a 20 year Air Force veteran, but when the other three kids were REAL bad, it sounded like he had some sailor in him as well. While working as an air traffic controller in Dover, he worked side jobs including security at Dover Downs so my mom wouldn't have to immediately go back to work as us kids were being born. He worked in textiles as a purchaser for a clothing/fabric company. He worked for the Schuylkill County Housing Authority aiding low income housing residents. He spent time working for the Department of Education in D.C., and he was an accountant for the VA hospital. Lost in the mix is the position he took which actually tells the most about who he was. When I was in high school, after the company he was working for laid off most of the staff, he still had a wife, four kids (three of whom were already in college), and a goofy German Shepherd mix for whom to provide. While continuing to apply for other positions, he took a job at the local gas station/hoagie shop. He put all pride aside, took what was probably pretty close to a minimum wage job, kept pressing forward, and kept the family afloat until better times would come.
As I grew up and started working, I realized just how valuable time away from work really was. And I reflected on how he gave ALL of his away. He attended countless ice skating shows and competitions. He didn't care much for ice skating (or Bryan Adams), but Meg did, so he was First There. He would drive hours away and park the RV in the infields of race tracks on blazing Saturday mornings just to watch Brian and Clark's endurance go kart races. He would much rather have been asleep on his chair while “watching” golf or Overhaulin'. He didn't have a vested interest in racing, but Brian did, so he was First There. He and Mark would go hunting every time deer season came around. I would ask if they saw anything, since they always came back empty handed (because Mark doesn't know how to load a bolt action rifle). Mark would talk about tracks he had seen or a small doe, while dad would have no such luck as deer seldom made enough noise to wake him, napping warmly inside his car to the 60s channel on XM. He would have much preferred being warm in bed, but Mark wanted to be in the woods, so he was First There. Unlike the other kids' activities, everything I did, he actually REALLY cared about, but in the spirit of completeness... I can't even guess how many evening sporting events he showed up for, after having already put in a full day of work. I know the inviting call of just getting home after a long day, but no matter the time, weather, or distance, he was First There. All those years we all thought that whatever little thing we had going on was the most important thing in the world. It turns out, he spent the last 40+ years making sure we knew we were right.
He taught us to measure twice, cut once and that “good enough” was never good enough. He taught us to defend ourselves if we had to and how to avoid conflict if we could. He taught us to do the labor, but contract out the plumbing and electrical. He taught us to have pride in our family name, Kemmery, the one that he consciously and proudly chose, the one that he would not dare allow us to diminish. One distinguished state trooper and three doctors later, it seems as though his point was well made. Some of what he instilled in us was intentional, but so much more was learned as we just observed him living life every single day.
On winning/losing with class/style – when I was the only kid still in high school and living at home, it meant playing a quick nine holes of golf would just include the two of us. I was never able to beat him consistently, but the first time it was about to happen, we drove to the ninth green. We were tied, but my approach shot left me with about a five foot putt for the win. His ball was much farther away, so he had to shoot first. He was probably 40 feet away, just off the green. I could tell he was enjoying watching me win, even if it meant he was about to lose. He happened to have grabbed the wrong club and told me to throw him my putter that I was carrying. I said “I'll just get yours”. He was a lefty, and I am a righty, and I definitely didn't need THIS excuse being part of the story of my legendary win (“Well if I just had MY putter...”). Again, he called for my righty club. Reluctantly, I threw it to him and turned to walk toward the hole to pull the flag. Instead of waiting, his ball rolled by me as I moved with my back to him. I saw it start curving with the green and on its last rotation fall into the hole, dead center..from at least 40 feet, with the wrong club, in a must make situation. I stopped, turned to him, and saw that he was already half way back to the cart, and my club was laying on the ground in the spot from which he had just shot. Without turning back he yelled, “grab that for me!” Your ball or my club? “Both!” Before I had time to miss my easy putt, he had already pulled off with the cart, leaving me to take the walk of shame from the green to the parking lot, carrying my putter and both of our golf balls. My first win against him would come another day, but he made it abundantly clear that it wasn't THAT day.
On being pragmatic/practical – mom and dad purchased land on the east edge of Frackville to build the new house. Days before the foundation was to be poured, an employee from the water company stopped to talk with him. He informed dad that he would be taking a strip on land that he had just purchased in order to run a pipe back to a large pumping station deep in the woods. The water would run underground and meet with the pipe underneath the road in front of the house. When my dad told him there was no way in hell that was happening, the water company man offered him an insulting amount, literally pennies on the dollar to buy back some of the land for which he had just paid. He told him to be thankful for the offer, because should he not accept, he would go to the county and obtain an order to take it for free. Within a couple days, the crew arrived to dig the land out and pour the foundation. Of course, my dad was First There. “Change of plans, guys”. He took the plan measurements and turned them to the left just a few degrees. “Let's dig it here.” They did as instructed, and the foundation was promptly installed. Now, the front left corner of the house, was directly on the line Mr. Hardball from the water company planned to use. When he arrived to see the development, he removed his hard hat, hung his head, looked up and smiled at my dad, and said touché. Their choices now included running a pipe through our basement, paying to have the foundation moved, or put the pipe under the access road, well away from our property. Spoiler alert, just like on the golf course, dad won.
On being fair – we didn't always get along. In high school, I knew everything. The main sources of contention were privacy, curfew, and freedom. Fighting on behalf of mom, dad was my main adversary during those years- a formidable foe. Before Mark became a trooper and speeding tickets were still a thing, when we came home with one, he didn't necessarily get mad. He just reminded us of the rule that our license was internally suspended until we figured out a way to earn the money to pay the fine and whatever amount he deemed necessary to cover the expected increase in insurance premium. At some point I decided to ensure my privacy. My room, my door. They stay out. So I did what any reasonable boy would do. I went to the hardware store, bought a chain lock, and went back to my room. I meticulously measured (twice), drilled pilot holes, and screwed in my new lock. I stepped back and admired my work. I was proud of it, and it felt good to finally take some control. Later that night, I heard him coming up the steps and down my side of the long hallway. The doorknob turned. The door began to open, and just as planned, the chain stopped it. “Open the door” he said calmly. “It's locked”, I so helpfully pointed out. I heard him walking away. The sweet taste of victory was mine! He went downstairs, and I turned back to the 13 inch TV to finish watching Talk Soup on E! A little while later, footsteps approached again. Time for round t- **CRACK!** In came dad's right foot as the chain broke into three or four pieces, landing on the floor. He was holding some sandpaper and a couple more tools. He walked over to my bed, calmly dropped them down, and turned to walk out of the room. He stopped, looked at the frame where the lock had been firmly attached just seconds ago, and before leaving, mentioned over his shoulder “after you fix that, you're going to need to buy a small can of white paint”. Calm, fair, and direct. The door stayed lockless for as long as we remained in that house.
On wisdom and experience – It seemed like we could call for directions from anywhere and he was able to help us navigate our way out. He could fix anything, build things from scratch, make mechanical adjustments, and reason his way through any situation. He taught me how to keep a balanced budget, earn credit but never rely on it, and give to those in need. Even as recently as a week ago, Brian was installing a raised toilet seat for him. Brian was having trouble using the funky adjustable screwdriver at the house. He asked mom if she ever used it, which she hadn't. As Brian struggled with it, dad reached out his arm from his hospital bed. Unable to muster the strength to speak or open his eyes for long, he pinched the two black pieces, locking the head in place, allowing Brian to finish the job. To the very end, he was helping us do things that we couldn't figure out on our own.
As his time drew near, we received calls and texts about how he was like a father to so many others. The amount of time, effort, and sacrifice he put forth to make others feel important is hard to wrap my mind around, but what's even more surprising than the sheer number of people he affected is the fact that not a single one of us ever felt slighted or that we were anything less than his number one priority. He had many roles and titles throughout his life: son, brother, uncle, husband, best friend, Master Sergeant, drummer, pilot, motorcycle rider, pitcher, accountant, volunteer EMT, Little League treasurer, driving instructor (and subsequently, transmission repairman), Meals on Wheels deliveryman, prison chaplaincy volunteer, coach, provider, paper route driver, rescuer, veteran, hero. Yet to us, he was one thing. He redefined the word and raised the bar for everyone who follows. To us, he has always been and will forever be: our dad.
