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Campers: James Paul Strickler
 My
father was a handsome man: full bodied but not corpulent, ruddy
complexion, keen blue eyes, erect stature (which made him appear
taller than his five-feet, eleven inches). More than once he
was taken for a professional man and accorded the title "Dr."
Although I think this secretly pleased him, he was not one to
take much stock in facades. In the youngest picture I have of
him, at about thirty four, he is bald except for a generous
and becoming grey laced with white fringe around the base of
his skull. He had the Washington nose: ample, slightly arched.
The mouth was firm, but poised for the laughter that frequently
came from him.
David L. Strickler
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 He
was aggressive, dependable, a hard worker and leader. People
instinctively liked and trusted him. He never let them down.
When crossed, however, he could be formidable. This I learned
the hard way. He was affectionate, if a bit shy about revealing
this side of his character. He was devoted to his family. He
had a great sense of humor, loved a good story (salty or otherwise)
and loved practical jokes whether played by or on him. My father
worked well both with his hands and his fine mind. An aptitude
for things mechanical courses strong in the Strickler genes.
It found a ready host in my father. He had a great talent for
improvisation, the root of all invention.
David L. Strickler
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 Fishing
was a sport dear to my father's heart. He was never happier
than when at it. He somehow could think like a fish: where one
would prefer to be, like to eat, when and where. He looked forward
to the opening day of the fishing season. Year after year he
would set out on the day before the season opened, always, he
proclaimed, to "scout the territory." And he always
made sure he carried a fishing pole along "to fend off
rabid fish." Why was it that fish taken illegally always
tasted the best? What impelled an otherwise law-abiding citizen,
ardent churchman, honest business executive to play these games?
Probably the part of him that never grew up.
David L. Strickler
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 We
shared set of wooden-shafted golf clubs. green fees were fifty
cents per nine holes. Although I insisted on following golf
etiquette, form and clothing (linen knickers, argyle socks,
sweater and cap), Father never bothered with any of this. He
wore a battered old felt hat, suspender supported work pants,
a collar band shirt minus the collar. He played his ball when
he got to it, regardless of who was closer to the pin. Form
was not in his vocabulary; he simply stood up, whaled away at
the ball and knocked the hell out of it. I never beat him. This
went on for several years until the green fees went up to seventy-five
cents. The end of this father-son venture.
David L. Strickler |
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