"Dear child if you want to know who you are and who you will be, look to your father and me for the apple does not fall far from the tree."
--Author Unknown

As my father and my uncle drove through the mine gate, the picketers remained outside the wire fence. Most were drunk with union liquor and as the gate closed, they began to rattle the fence. They cursed, they yelled, and they threatened death.
"You better shut-down, you scab bastard."
My father moved toward the office but stopped. He turned and looked into my uncle's eyes. He spoke abruptly, "Joe, no matter what they say or do, just ignore them. Say nothing!" His nervousness was justified, for violence was commonplace when the United Mine Workers of America had its sights on a particular operation. The present target was Grippo Mining Incorporated, a small, nonunion coal mine that paid union scale wages. The picketers were out-of-state agitators and the picketing was not about wages or money Ð it was about the union leadership's desire to consolidate power.
After tolerating insult upon insult and references to his sister, his wife
and his
mother, my Uncle Joe blurted out, "Go to Hell, you illegitimate bastard. At least
I know who my father is!"
In a burst of mob violence, a man began to climb the fence, and immediately the others followed. Soon the fence was trampled to the ground, and before my Uncle Joe could react, they grabbed him and beat him. My father heard the commotion and, as he looked out the office window, he saw his brother being beaten, not with fists but with shoes. Without thought, he slipped his revolver into his jacket pocket and he grabbed his loaded Remington 12-gauge shotgun. As he ran out the office door he let one round go into the air. With the roar of the shotgun there was silence and the picketers stepped away from his brother. As my father walked toward the mob, he pumped another round into the chamber and lowered the shotgun to his waist. Staring at the men who beat his brother, he began to speak, his voice deep and raspy. Its message was unmistakable. Facing twenty or thirty men, my father simply
said, "Let him up or die!"
The insanity in my father's eyes and the crazed look upon his face was enough to put the fear of death in them. The apocalyptic Pale Rider was upon them Ð death was his name and Hell followed after him. The picketers began to inch backwards, and as quickly as they had climbed the fence, they broke into a run. As they faced away, my father shot another round into the air. Within a minute, maybe less, the mob was out of sight and there was no one left, but my father and his brother lying at his feet.
Three men came down from the coal-screening tipple and helped to put Uncle Joe in the car. He suffered no permanent damage but was covered with blood and bruises. Some of his ribs were fractured, but none were splintered. After Joe's wife arrived at the hospital, my father went home to my mother. He sat curled on a kitchen chair with his head cupped in his hands.
He sat in silence, slowly rocking. His face was wet with tears. My mother did nothing initially, but after a few minutes, she moved close to him and gently pulled his head to her bosom. She began to weep. As she rocked back and forth, she told him what he needed to hear.
"It's all right, Tony. You did the right thing. They might have killed him. You just did what you had to. God knows, there's no sin in fighting evil!"
My father would shed no more tears. He sighed and sat motionless at the kitchen table. He said nothing as he stared at the floor and slowly drank, hour after hour. My mother did not tolerate alcohol in the house, but she said nothing. He drank himself drunk, and his wife helped him into bed without complaint. He slept until the following morning. Nothing was said. Dad went to work as usual, and my mother never mentioned the incident until years after
my father's death.
My father was a moral man who, on occasion, had to do things that ran contrary to his temperament and character. He was, in fact, a good man who was generous and respectful of his employees and devoted to his family. His first response to anything was kindness, but rarely do individuals have an opportunity to choose the circumstances of their lives. My father was no exception, and as such, he was a good man who was capable of doing evil when he believed it to justified. When left with no option, he sometimes responded in a fashion that caused him sorrow, but he felt no remorse. This man was no fool, for he would not let anyone chain him with his own morality. He would not allow his kindness, his compassion, or his love to be used
against him.
Like my father, I too know there are times when you must respond in kind, evil for evil, or suffer at the hands of those who have no concept of good. This understanding of the human condition is part of the lasting legacy that my father passed down to me. During my life, I too have had to play the role of Defending Knight Ð not with a shotgun, but with lawyers and money. Ideals are abstractions of what should be, but you must live in the real. While there is much good in this life, there is evil as well, and as my mother has said on many occasions, "God knows, there's no sin in fighting evil."
My mother told me many times that I reminded her of my father. She always had a far and away look in her eyes as she stared into space and back to the Tony of her past. After so many years, my mother still missed my father and she enjoyed telling me about him. Suddenly, she would turn to me and smile as if it was an affirmation of her love. Her voice was always calm and
sweet as she talked of her husband.

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