A time when people took on responsibility...

There was a time in this great country of ours that if something needed to get done, if someone needed help, if some kids needed a place to simply play baseball, well then it got done.

There wasn't any contacting your council person and whining that, "We need another park". There was no petitioning the State asking for funds to build some pavilion for people to gather. There were no protests with people carrying signs wanting more government-paid for, more government- sponsored programs. The people of that time, that generation,  just simply got things done.

I was reminded of all of this when I received a true treasure trove this past week. One that brought back so many memories of  my youth in Dayton, Ohio, of my parents, of my brothers, of many relatives that I barely new and of a time when people took on responsibility.

My brother and sister-in-law sent a box of memories that they have had in their possession ever since my Mom and Dad's passings years ago.  Dave and Kutchie asked among family members who might want to be the new curator of the Kender treasure chest, I jumped at the opportunity.

And when I began to slowly remove each item, it dawned on me  how we have lost the presence of mind of taking on responsibility for ourselves and our community.

One of the first things I saw in this vault of remembrances was a picture of Dad and some other men as they constructed a backstop for a baseball diamond in a field that Dad had purchased off of Wolf Creek Pike. There was a need in that part of town for a place where kids could simply play a game they loved. A place where they could actually have bases, and a pitcher's mound, and benches and a home plate. And Dad decided to do something about it. He took on the responsibility of getting it done.

The Dayton Daily News published a picture of them working with Dad standing on a stepladder and the other men hoisting the chain link fence that would provide the barrier for any overthrown balls missed by the catcher. And then I saw more clippings of Dad from the same newspaper, and an interview telling his story of his growing up in a isolated Hungarian community in Dayton where the people worked together to make things better for all. I can remember him providing jobs for immigrants from Hungary who came to this country legally during the Hungary Revolution in 1956, and gave them the opportunity to learn a trade at his small machine shop, B. O. K. Mfg. near West 3rd Street and Broadway. I saw pictures of him gathering his All Star team as they got ready to play the season ending finale. You can't imagine the pride I had.

And then I realized. I have written numerous stories about my Dad  but I was always writing about missing Dad and how I felt as I now approach an age when he left this earth. But I don't think I ever said the two simple magical words, Thank You.

I didn't say Thank you for your contributions to the city where you grew up and where I grew up. I didn't say Thank You for the time, money and effort that you devoted to bringing the American pastime of baseball to so many kids. Thank you for organizing  a group of volunteers to bush hog a forgotten piece of land and build backstops, and benches and preparing an overgrown field that became a truly a Field of Dreams.

I never took the time to say Thank You, Dad. Thank you for being there. Thank You for setting a example that if I could be merely a shadow of what you contributed to a community, I would be a blessed man.

I guess I just saw you as Dad. A lot of the things you did either I didn't know about or maybe you simply kept to yourself.

You were a good man.