Vernon

By Dick McCullough

Download This Article

Madera, California: farm town, USA. Calluses, grime, skinned knuckles. Scorching summers and damp, cold winters. Madera is teenage moms, illegal Mexicans, social security and welfare. Families scratching a living out of hardpan.

In the 30's, Texas was hardpan, too. Dustbowl. Great Depression. Vernon, at the age of 9, had started picking cotton in the fields outside Dallas. By 12 he was picking sunrise to sunset, to help feed his family. Vernon also had a ruddy complexion that sunburned easily (and often).

The family was desperate, living hard times. So poor that Vernon didn't often get to school. When he did, he went barefoot or he wore pants with holes in the knees because that's all he had. But his clothes were clean. His mother, Essie Mae, would wash his one set of clothes every night after school. They moved around a lot. So Vern was often the new kid and got picked on. He hated not being in school everyday, not keeping up with other kids his age, not getting smart like everyone else. He was ashamed of being poor, ashamed of not being smart. If he didn't have a lunch to bring, he'd hide during the noon recess so the other kids wouldn't find out. Yes, in 1937, Texas was hardpan, too.

Vernon, along with his parents and three brothers migrated out from Texas that year in a broken down '28 Hupmobile, hoping to find work. Real life Grapes of Wrath. The Hupmobile saved them. It ran good only at night but it got them to California. It carried them to Madera and the Leach's farm. Good people, the Leaches. Decent, hard-working. They gave Vern's family a roof. They gave them work. Vernon had a knack with cars. Seven years after migrating west, he got a job at Shuman and Nichols' Ford in town. His first job off the farm. His first job out of the sun. He was 20. He worked hard, studied. When Shuman and Nichols sold out to Whitehead, Vern got promoted to Service Manager. He later bought a gas station, Vernon's Chevron Service, which still carries his name today.

Vern married a shy, skinny girl named Frances. They had three kids. First a daughter, then a son. The son, perfectly normal, died three days old, victim of poor medical treatment or bad luck, take your pick. Against stern doctor's orders, Frances got pregnant again. Risking her life for a second son, she gave birth to a premature and sickly me. To avoid further risks and ending any future hopes for another son, the doctor tied her tubes. A newborn with pneumonia and blue hands, the same doctor that caused my brother's death and sterilized my mother put his own blood directly into my veins to keep me alive.

Vernon McCullough was unusual. He had had, by most standards, an unusually hard life. And it would get harder. But it just didn't seem to matter. He was insanely and irrationally happy. Whatever happened, he found good in it. Whenever an employee at the gas station would quit, he wasn't very good and they will be better off without him. Whenever an employee considered quitting but decided to stay, they were fortunate to have such a great worker. When he lent money or property to friends and family, never to see either again, he just shrugged it off. To the keen and jaded eye of an adolescent, he was absurd, emotionally repressed, unable to face reality.

Never having attended high school (and therefore missing sex ed class), he didn't realize that marriage was not supposed to be fun. Vern and Frances held hands and giggled like teenagers throughout their nearly 60 years of marriage. They were a constant source of embarrassment to their two children who could do nothing but shake their heads at this reality-denying couple.

Vern, seemingly as sweet as an angel, had a devilish side. He loved practical jokes and was constantly inflicting them on his children, his friends, his relatives. No one was safe. This guy was just too damn happy.

When we took car trips and any one of us fell asleep, he would, while traveling at freeway speed, slam on his brakes and say, "Oh, my. What's that over there? An accident?" You cannot sleep that way. You just can't. You have to look.

He frequently, but randomly (so you were never prepared), while backing the car out of the driveway, said, "Let me know if I hit something." Then slammed on the brakes. We eventually got used to it but you could always tell when one of our friends was riding with Vernon for the first time. Their screams and horrified looks of its-not-my-fault were dead giveaways.

His humor sometimes got a little meaner. He was, after all, raised in a Dallas ghetto. He, for some reason I will never fathom, enjoyed sneaking up behind me whenever I was near the edge of some very high structure, like Friant Dam, the largest concrete dam in California. He would clamp his bear paws on both my shoulders and pretend to throw me off, leaving me suspended over the edge peering down, praying he wouldn't lose his grip. He seemed to think this was funny. I did not. To this day, if I see a movie with someone dangling precariously high off the ground, my palms sweat and I start to squirm in my seat.

On the flip side, however, whenever I crossed the street with him as a youngster, his iron grip on my hand made it clear that I was not dashing out front of some car. His determination to protect me was absolute. I trust his love for me more than the ground I walk on. But I'm still afraid of heights.

Vernon donated money and time to local charities and sports like Little League. He would anonymously buy running shoes for boys on the high school cross-country team when the coach would tell him someone couldn't afford shoes. Any friend that stopped by his station and needed a shoulder to cry on, always had his. His employees used to tease him that they did all the work. All he did was go have coffee.

.Once, when he was still working at the Ford garage, an American Indian woman was there with her little granddaughter. The little girl was barefoot and the two of them were about to walk out of the garage to their car across the street. The pavement was burning hot. Vern carried the little girl to the car. Years later, the Indian woman returned and reminded him of that kindness. Although it meant a lot to her, he didn't remember ever doing it. It was just a normal part of his day. Just one of a thousand kindnesses done and forgotten.

.As a college kid, his daughter joined a missionary group which consisted mostly of poor college kids with good intentions. Dozens of those kids dropped by his station over the years. They always got free gas, free car repairs, a free lunch and a warm hug.

About 10 years ago, a dark spot appeared in the corner of his left eye. He had had many skin cancers before. Too many years in the fields. All basal cells. The doctors said basal cell will never kill you. This one would turn out to be different.

This one resisted treatment. It was cut out. It returned. It was radiated. Chemo-therapied. It grew. It was cut out again. It returned. It was cut out again. It spread. His left eye and much of his sinuses on the left side were cut out, leaving him with a grotesque hole gaping in his face, like some science fiction movie. It came back. More face cut out. More bone. It came back.

It was the Arnold Schwarzenegger of basal cells.

If you argue with him, he points to his missing eye and says with a goofy Red Skelton grin, "I'm under the doctor's care." You are undone. If you go to a restaurant with him, you will never see the check. And you are undone again.

Vernon loves golf. He has milked his missing eye for more strokes from more people than can be counted. Joe Garza, golfing buddy, counterattacked. He wrapped his elbow in bandages before playing with Vern one day. Told Vern that he had badly injured his arm and didn't know if he could play. Wanted sympathy, wanted strokes. He got both. Around hole 15, Joe unwrapped his arm, revealing a perfectly healthy elbow and a gigantic smile. It was a rare victory for our side.

He is as determined to give to others, and not be given to, as he was to protect me crossing a street. I suppose his starvation poor childhood has made him so fiercely independent. But his overriding goals have always been to give everything to others and accept nothing in return.

We all fail sometimes.

76 years of quietly helping others. Active avoidance of recognition. The result? A community of loving, devoted friends. Madera is hardpan. But if you drill down far enough, you'll hit the water table. And one of the drops of water in that table is named Bob Kelly.

Bob Kelly is the retired Director of City Parks and Recreation Department. Bob's overgrown belly, scrawny beard, crooked teeth and aw-shucks personality make him look more like a character from Hee Haw than the Ph. D. that he actually is. Bob is a man of passionate beliefs. He crusaded fervently for years to get Leroy Zimmerman, a local sports hero, enshrined in the NFL Hall of Fame. He failed.

But Bob found another crusade: create a running and hiking trail to stretch out several miles along the Fresno River. And name it the Vern McCullough Fresno River Trail. Talk about chasing windmills. Just getting the trail built requires more committee approval and paperwork than an IRS audit. But to name it after a nobody, a non-politician, a non-Italian? Why would anyone approve it? He's not part of any good-old-boy network, doesn't belong to the local country club, has never been mayor, has never even bribed the mayor.

But Bob started grinding. Bob knew how the system worked and he worked it. He also found supporters in strange places. In one instance, Bob presented his plan to the City Planning Commission. The head of that commission was a black man named Don Holly. When Don heard of Bob's idea, he immediately threw his support behind it with vigor. Don, it turns out, has a story. 40 years ago, Don was a 5 year old black kid in a hardpan town trying to make some money shining shoes. He would hang out on the street hustling up business as people passed by. Madera gets scorching hot in the summers. Don wasn't always welcomed by local retailers. But Don could go to Vernon's station, hustle up business from Vernon's customers, use the restrooms, get some shade. Nobody would run him off. In fact, Vernon would often treat him to an ice-cold soda. Vernon gave a poor, 5 year old black boy respect. Don never forgot. Don will never forget. Vernon doesn't remember.

It took several years. But Bob is as hardpan as the town he lives in. The Vern McCullough Fresno River Trail is under construction. The dedication ceremony is in two months. Vernon is all over the local papers, a minor celebrity. This was turning out to be a real life version of It's a Wonderful Life with Vernon playing the part of Jimmy Stewart. But life's not quite so neat. This story has a touch of Life is Beautiful, too.

Vernon's remaining eye may now have cancer. Vernon, who has always found good in every situation his entire life, has repeatedly said he does not want to live if he goes blind. Every time I have heard him say that, it has taken my breath, it is so out-of-character. But he doesn't want to be a burden on anyone. He can't, in fact, bear the thought of needing anyone to take care of him. His entire life he has insisted that he not only give to others but also that he not receive. He would rather die than accept help. Literally.

But Vernon has a problem. He has friends lining up to help him, whether he wants them to or not. Friends that would pay good money for the chance to give a little back to a man that has never asked for a thing but the opportunity to serve.

It seems to me that it's now time for Vernon to learn how to give at a higher level. There is nothing Vernon loves more than giving to others, even if it means great sacrifice for himself. Perhaps the greatest gift he can now give his friends and family is the gift of letting them give to him. This, no doubt, will be the greatest sacrifice he has ever made. And, I'm sure, this will also be the greatest gift he has ever given.

MACRO CONSULTING
Intelligent Decisions