In 1995 my wife's grandparents moved from the little trailer they'd called 'home' for decades into the Arizona Pioneer's Home in Prescott, Arizona.
For them it was the beginning of their life's final act.
For me it was the beginning of my discovery of the family legacy I'd recently married into.
Dick Allen and his wife, Velma, of more than 60 years were settled into their little apartment in the old brick retirement mansion once designated as a home for sick and elderly mine workers in Central Arizona. And our work of sorting through their life's accumulated effects started.
There was the odd, like clean, empty yogurt cups; the expected, like stacks of lace doilies; the treasured, like an original oil painting of a violin and a trumpet.
And there was the revealing.
In a cigar box in the back of one of Dick's dresser drawers, I found an insight into who this man was, what motivated him, and why he did some of the things he did.
Dick was born Richard Michael Allen on the 8th of June, 1911 in Mesa, Arizona Territory. By the time he was 10 years old, his family had moved from the desert into the more pleasant ranching and mining community around Prescott, Arizona.
One morning, Dick's father, Warner, heard about a family that had just arrived in the Prescott area destitute. They had come up from a ranch in Southeastern Arizona driving a wagon pulled by a borrowed team of horses. Drought had killed their last cattle and a house fire had burned their home to the ground while they were hauling water from a nearly dry river miles from their land.
Prescott seemed like as good a place as any to start anew.
Warner took Dick, hitched up a team of horses to the wagon, and drove out to meet the new family. On the way he loaded the wagon with groceries and other supplies he thought these immigrants might need. And while Dick helped unload the wagon at their new homestead, Warner slipped $50 in gold coins into the newcomer's hand.
There was no expectation of repayment. It was what Warner did. It was what he believed was the right thing to do. It was what he raised his children to do.
Dick met Velma Christensen in 1933, and on February 1st, 1935 they were married.
Their life was as normal as so many others' were during the Second World War and the ensuing decades of the American Golden Age. Dick managed, then owned the Allen's Nu-Way grocery store on Gurley Street in Prescott, and Velma headed up the PTA while raising 6 children. Their oldest died when he was only 2 years old, and their second youngest contracted polio, but survived.
Dick had grown up learning and believing that all mankind - white, black, brown and red- are children of the same God. He had grown up learning that service is the price we pay to live in this world. He had grown up learning that the best thing you can do for a body is to let them retain their dignity.
And in that cigar box I found a revelation of how deeply Dick lived that ideal.
There were a few cheap, broken watches, a pen knife, a woman's hat pin, a brooch, and a handful of notes. "J. Martins - $50." "Mrs. Dascomb - $25." And on, and on. Careful not to harm anyone's dignity, Dick had taken collateral on grocery accounts his neighbors could not pay right away. And Dick had taken a lenient approach to collection efforts. That is to say, judging by the contents of his cigar box, none.
Believing in the soul-destroying power of a handout, Dick Allen waged his own war on hunger and poverty. A one-man army simultaneously acting in charity and respecting humanity, he did what no government program, no community service project, could ever do.
And in 1995 I learned that part of my wife's character and my children's' legacy.
For them it was the beginning of their life's final act.
For me it was the beginning of my discovery of the family legacy I'd recently married into.
Dick Allen and his wife, Velma, of more than 60 years were settled into their little apartment in the old brick retirement mansion once designated as a home for sick and elderly mine workers in Central Arizona. And our work of sorting through their life's accumulated effects started.
There was the odd, like clean, empty yogurt cups; the expected, like stacks of lace doilies; the treasured, like an original oil painting of a violin and a trumpet.
And there was the revealing.
In a cigar box in the back of one of Dick's dresser drawers, I found an insight into who this man was, what motivated him, and why he did some of the things he did.
Dick was born Richard Michael Allen on the 8th of June, 1911 in Mesa, Arizona Territory. By the time he was 10 years old, his family had moved from the desert into the more pleasant ranching and mining community around Prescott, Arizona.
One morning, Dick's father, Warner, heard about a family that had just arrived in the Prescott area destitute. They had come up from a ranch in Southeastern Arizona driving a wagon pulled by a borrowed team of horses. Drought had killed their last cattle and a house fire had burned their home to the ground while they were hauling water from a nearly dry river miles from their land.
Prescott seemed like as good a place as any to start anew.
Warner took Dick, hitched up a team of horses to the wagon, and drove out to meet the new family. On the way he loaded the wagon with groceries and other supplies he thought these immigrants might need. And while Dick helped unload the wagon at their new homestead, Warner slipped $50 in gold coins into the newcomer's hand.
There was no expectation of repayment. It was what Warner did. It was what he believed was the right thing to do. It was what he raised his children to do.
Dick met Velma Christensen in 1933, and on February 1st, 1935 they were married.
Their life was as normal as so many others' were during the Second World War and the ensuing decades of the American Golden Age. Dick managed, then owned the Allen's Nu-Way grocery store on Gurley Street in Prescott, and Velma headed up the PTA while raising 6 children. Their oldest died when he was only 2 years old, and their second youngest contracted polio, but survived.
Dick had grown up learning and believing that all mankind - white, black, brown and red- are children of the same God. He had grown up learning that service is the price we pay to live in this world. He had grown up learning that the best thing you can do for a body is to let them retain their dignity.
And in that cigar box I found a revelation of how deeply Dick lived that ideal.
There were a few cheap, broken watches, a pen knife, a woman's hat pin, a brooch, and a handful of notes. "J. Martins - $50." "Mrs. Dascomb - $25." And on, and on. Careful not to harm anyone's dignity, Dick had taken collateral on grocery accounts his neighbors could not pay right away. And Dick had taken a lenient approach to collection efforts. That is to say, judging by the contents of his cigar box, none.
Believing in the soul-destroying power of a handout, Dick Allen waged his own war on hunger and poverty. A one-man army simultaneously acting in charity and respecting humanity, he did what no government program, no community service project, could ever do.
And in 1995 I learned that part of my wife's character and my children's' legacy.
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