By Martha Slater

My father, Ronald Dwight Finney, was one of eight children. Born March 28, 1920 in Ridgefield, Conn. to Ernest and Florence (Scott) Finney, he grew up on a small farm in Vista, N.Y. When Dad was 12, his father died of a cerebral hemorrhage and my grandmother was suddenly a single mom with eight children to feed and care for on her own. It was 1932, the height of the Depression, but she somehow managed to keep everyone fed and clothed.

My father was a devoted son, who worked hard to help his mother take care of his younger siblings. He walked five miles each way to high school in New Canaan, Conn. with a neighbor, Seth Duryea; and a girl whose name I’ve forgotten. The two boys put her between them in the winter, so she’d be warmer. After high school, he wanted to go to college, but there was no money for that, so he got a job working on the Taggart estate in New Canaan, Conn.

During World War II, he served in the Army Air Corps, the forerunner of today’s U.S. Air Force, and spent time in England, Italy, and what was then called French North Africa. Although he was a member of what is now often called "The Greatest Generation," he would have said he and his fellow soldiers weren’t heroes, but were only doing their duty to serve their country.

He met my mom, Alice (Marsh) Finney, at her family’s Harvest Home Farm, about a mile north of Rochester village on Route 100. Her cousin, Zora Chamberlain Dwire, who worked with Dad on the Taggart estate, introduced them. Although my mom was eight years older than he was, they fell in love and were married in 1948. My sister arrived 10 months later, and I was born in 1953.

My parents had a good marriage. They were partners, and made decisions together. Dad was the breadwinner and Mom stayed home and took care of her family. Dad put his paycheck in the bank each week and Mom took care of the checkbook and paid the bills. Dad went grocery shopping, because Mom didn’t drive.

At one point, he worked in Randolph for Ethan Allen Furniture Co, and we lived in a house on Lincoln Avenue that I often walk by now. I was a toddler that year, and don’t remember living there, but my older sister was in first grade then. Her classroom was in what is now the Chandler Gallery, where her classmates included Judith (Dimick) Alonso, whom she is still in touch with, and Chuck Cassidy, now the husband of Nancy Cassidy, one of my co-workers at The Herald.

Dad was an enthusiastic gardener. I like to think that my oldest daughter, who is a horticulturist, got some of her love of plants from him. He made our double lot in Ridgefield, Conn. a verdant showcase with a large vegetable garden, grape arbor, raspberry bushes, and fruit trees. Each of our huge maple trees was ringed with a neatly edged bed of pachysandra.

For about 30 years, Dad worked as a delivery truck driver for the Home Oil Co. in New Canaan, Conn. I still remember the smell of the fuel oil that clung to his dark blue uniform even after laundering, rising from the ironing board with the steam as my mother pressed it.

When he came home at night, I remember him often teasing my mom by untying her apron strings as she stood at the stove making supper. He had a heavy beard and would often rub his bristly chin against her cheek, before going upstairs to wash up. He’d come back into the kitchen, freshly shaved, and repeat the process, saying, "See? Smooth as a baby’s bottom!"

He was a stern disciplinarian as a father, but became a doting grandfather. Now that I’m a grandparent myself, I can imagine the joy he must have gotten from seeing those small faces wreathed in smiles and tiny hands placed trustingly in his. He worked many hours when my sister and I were growing up, and I’m glad he had more time in his later years to show his love for his grandchildren. They returned that love enthusiastically.

Dad was very patriotic, a proud veteran and VFW member, who always marched in our town’s Memorial Day parade, but had to ride in a car in his last parade because he was too weak from cancer to walk. He taught my oldest daughter to raise and lower the flag on the pole in his front yard. I went back recently and saw that although the town, the neighborhood and the house where I grew up had changed a great deal, Dad’s flagpole was still there.

He died April 1, 1990 from stomach cancer, just a few days after his 70^th birthday. I’ve always thought it was fitting that my dad, who loved to tease people and joke around, died on April Fools Day. He was weak and emaciated on my last visit, which was just a short time before he died, but he still hobbled outside to see if I had oil in my car and my gas tank was full! He worried about my three children and me being safe on the trip back to Vermont.

Dad didn’t go to church on a regular basis, but he lived his moral values every day. He had firm beliefs and spent countless hours helping others. Dad taught me, by his example, to be tenacious and work hard, have faith in God and also in myself, keep my word, be a committed parent and community member, and to love life and have a sense of humor about it. I miss him and I often feel his presence with me.

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