Jack Ronald Smith was quite an interesting man. He was also my Dad. I’ve posted these pictures of him in a reverse order of his life to show where he came from. His senior picture is at the top so you can all see what a handsome and dashing young man he was. Recently I was back in Nowata, Oklahoma for a book signing for Radersburg Gold and I had some time to kill before the event started. I went into the Historical Society’s museum there, it was the Nowata Clinic Hospitial when I was a kid, and I had many not very fond memories of the building. I did find the big blown up picture of Dad’s graduating class hanging on the wall. His picture and my life long best friend, Steve Delmas’ Mother, Zita Flannegan were the center of the page, I don’t think that was by accident. I do think and it’s a totally unbiased opinion that they were the two best looking students in the class. It was a little humorous though that Dad’s hair was poofier than Zita’s.
These pictures above here are a little out of order of Dad’s life because I’m a little out of my element when I’m trying to tell the computer what to do and it’s saying, “Make Me.” Anyway the picture of the goat cart should have been above the other two and God is my witness I tried like Hell to put it there but be that as it may, this was taken after the Smith family had moved from Sunnyside to Ponca City. The goat lived in Ponca City. The ravages of time and poor handling practices have taken off half of Uncle John’s face but Dad is still intact. No one in the family that I’ve talked to can seem to remember this unforgettable event of riding in the goat cart.
The class picture was taken when they still lived in the little community of Sunnyside, I think it was close to Oklahoma City. Dad was third from the right in the second row. My Uncle John was on the right end of the second row. He is the one with the big brown eyes and his hand in his pocket. I think I know now where my brother Tracey got his eyes from. Uncle Jim is in the front row second from the right. Aunt Donna is on the back row second from left.
The other picture here is Dad and his Dad our Grandpa, Jack Asbury Smith. I love the hats.
Dad was an amazing man in the fact he lived life the hardest of anyone I’ve ever known. Here was a man that was never supposed to live past the age of twenty five, at least that was the Doctor’s predictions when he had his first cancer surgery. I believe he had Crones disease but it didn’t have a name yet. They replaced his colon with a plastic hose and I’m sure he wasn’t supposed to do much after that. He only worked for twenty years in a machine shop, trained bird dogs, hunted quail, fished, did some calf roping (at least enough to break his right arm so he could have more time to go fishing while he was unable to work in the machine shop), raise four kids, three boys and a girl, teach himself the fiddle and mandolin (he already knew how to play the guitar), baby sit his two oldest grandkids from time to time and take Dustin fishing. He could sing a song that would break your heart or tell a story about him and his brothers or those durn Lawyer kids that would have you laughing so hard you would have tears in your eyes. These were the boys Dad blamed for all of his mis-behavior. I would tell you those stories here but they are being saved to go into a book.
By the time Dad finally died he had had three cancer surgeries, one kidney was completely non-functional, and one quarter of his heart (including the Aorta) was completely blocked and dead, the blood flow being carried by the two smaller arteries and pumped by what was left of his heart. Because he had cancer he couldn’t qualify for a transplant. As one Doctor told him, “Jack, do you know how many medical journals you’re in? You have three different things that should have killed a normal man but you’re still up and going.” He stayed up and going until two days before he died. Other than the times he was in the hospital for kidney stones and surgeries he was never down for very long. Here was a man who was never supposed to live to be twenty five; he died at the age of fifty four. We all got to say our goodbyes and he died holding the hands of my Sister and Step-mom. I do believe he wanted to live the most of anybody I’ve ever known. I miss him from time to time, almost everyday, but I’m glad that when he did go it was quick and he doesn’t have to hurt anymore. I’ve got one more picture I’m going to put in here, it’s Dad just a couple of years before he died, I think he was still a good looking man.
