"Pop" - Part 1
by Kenneth W. Neal
I write about my father to tell others, particularly my own children,
of an unusual and interesting man, flawed, to be sure, but outstanding
in his understanding of human nature. But his story is difficult to tell apart from his own father, and for that matter, apart from me.
It has occurred to me only recently that his story includes his father’s story and that my own story encompasses them both.
I feel a bit awkward making my father the central character in my own
life and memories, because it seems I am neglecting my mother. But
there will be time and space to talk about her. She played a leading
role in his life and quite obviously, mine.
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| Fred R. Neal (approximately 1932) with unknown lady. |
Maybe I should start with my earliest memories, not so much because
they are so unusual, but because they will help to understand my
father, hereinafter referred to variously as “pop,” “dad” or sometimes
“the old man.”
I was born September 26, 1935, in the “east basin” near Mannford,
Okla., on an oil lease pumped by my mother’s father, Ray Ingalls. My
birth certificate, signed by a Dr. McDonald, lists the place of birth in
Cimarron Township, Pawnee County.
Keystone and Mannford were my dad’s early “stomping grounds,”
and some of the stories about him are from before he married my mother
July 11, 1934.
My father was a great story teller, taking great pains, not to
mention time, to tell me much about his early life and his own father,
Radford Andrew Neal, who died in November 1937.
I have no memory of Radford, or “Rad,” as most called him, but I know him. That’s because pop told me so much about him.
It wasn’t that dad consciously decided that his only child should
know the family history, it was that he remembered his own father with
such fondness that he constantly recalled what he said and did. The good
times and the bad times were never far from his mind. I believed and
still believe my father told the truth as he understood and remembered
it.
Only recently, I ran into one of his old cronies at American
Airlines, who volunteered to tell me that “Fred Neal was the most honest
man I ever knew.”
That impressed me, of course, but it also reassured me that the many
stories and anecdotes my dad told me were not only funny or unusual, but
true.
I struggle with how to unfold this tale, so I return to my first
memory: It involves the Rock Inn and a few hazy memories.
Some time around 1936, dad found work “running” a filling station (as
they were known then and for years afterward) next door to the Rock
Inn, which was just outside the old town of Keystone, now deep under the
waters of Keystone Lake.
There were cabins on the rise behind the service station and the nearby
roadside cafe. The cafe was something out of a scene in the “Grapes of
Wrath,” yet to be written, of course.
But it had a juke box and a long bar common to roadside diners.
That’s all I remember. I am not too sure I remember that, even. Probably
my folks told me about it and that has influenced my memory.
But I do remember this: Pop had a Model A Ford. He would start the
old Ford and park it beside the station to let it warm up, which took a
considerable time.
That’s where I came in. The Model A needed to be “choked” during the warmup period to keep it running.
A Model A had a choke rod through the firewall to the carburetor (I
later learned) and dad put me in the right seat to operate the choke.
When the engine begin to sputter, I pulled the choke to keep it running.
That I could detect this and keep the engine running “tickled my dad to
death” as they say, and he must have done this a lot because I remember
it.
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