My Dad did not like to fish. If you asked him why, he probably would have told you that he just didn't have the patience to sit still for so long. If you'd known him, his answer would have made perfect sense; Arnold Noel was a driven man. Hard work was his vocation, his hobby and his passion. Supporting a wife and six children with only a GED and a masters degree in busted knuckles, free time was in short supply. Now, don't get me wrong, Sundays were for rest and Dad’s recliner was well worn. I swear there was a dip in the living room floor from all the hours he laid there. That spot was perfect for comforting the plastic discs in his spine that he received courtesy of a work injury while driving a truck in the early 1960s Los Angeles. After surgery and weeks of traction, the prognosis was that not only would Dad probably never return to work, but most likely never be able to lift his children again. That was the wrong answer for the wrong guy! Progress was long and hard but eventually children were hoisted, work was resumed and after a move back to Ohio, trucks were driven again. …and man, did Dad love to drive! Of all the jobs he worked over the years, that was definitely one of his favorites. From general farm work to tending anti-aircraft guns in the US Army… From aircraft assembly to driving a straight truck… Whatever the work, he immersed himself. Dad excelled and he earned respect.

However, it was when he took up a butcher's knife in his hand that I think Dad really found his calling. He started cutting meat at one of the jobs where he drove a delivery truck and eventually he found himself in a butcher shop of his own. For about ten years he, with my brother and a sister, operated our family business. It was the early 80s and not the best time to start a venture. Despite that though, through blood, sweat, long hours, late nights and lots of coffee, Noel's Meat Processing became a well-respected cog in the local custom freezer meat market. Dad was soft spoken but firm. He was funny, honest and personable and all of these traits helped him to quickly earn our customers' trust and admiration. The quality and value of our service became well known and it was due, in great part, to the grit, determination and skill of my Dad. Watching him break down a carcass into beautiful steaks and roasts was like watching an artist painting a masterpiece. A knife would become an extension of himself and he would bring forth cuts of meat that looked like they were prisoners, anxious to be released. Anyone who should ever find themselves as proficient and skilled in their vocation as my Dad, could call themselves truly blessed. I wish I could tell you that the story of our little family butcher shop was a successful one, but circumstances eventually led to its demise. When our little shop closed in 1989, Dad & Mom moved a couple hours north to Columbus, Ohio where he continued to work with that same grit and determination until his body eventually weakened and failed. Lung cancer stole him from us at the too-young age of 61 years.

As a kid, his answer about fishing never entirely made sense to me. Dad spent his early years on the bank of the Scioto River and all his siblings like to bait a hook. How could you not enjoy fishing when you were practically born on a river? I remember the night I decided to press him about this puzzle. I was too young to fully grasp the gravity of his words but I knew by his eyes and the change in his voice that it had become a very serious moment. Dad explained to me that fishing isn't the same when you and your loved ones could starve if you came home without a catch. It was never a sport for him. Fishing meant survival and it held no joy or relaxation for him; only memories of anxiety and hunger.

You see, my Dad was born in 1929 and was the oldest of eight children. My grandfather was already an old man on the day that he married my grandmother and started his second family. The economic collapse of The Great Depression had driven them to a small cabin, sandwiched between the Scioto River and Norfolk & Western railroad tracks in Rosemount, Ohio. Those were hard times that few of us could understand and survival often hinged on supplementing Grandpa's sporadic wages with fish from the river, coal scavenged from along the tracks, and whatever their meager garden could produce. When times were especially hard, corn was even pilfered from farmers' fields across the river. With Grandpa growing weaker and sicker, the burden to provide was increasingly loaded upon my Dad's young shoulders. He was groomed young to be a provider and he stoically held that identity until the day he died. They weren't all hard times, though and his childhood summers were often spent swinging in the tops of trees, rowing upstream in the mornings to float back in the afternoon, and rubbing lightning bugs on each other's faces before playing in the dark. Winters were full of games on the river ice, building caves in the snow and rubbing grease on the railroad tracks to make the engineers cuss and shake their fists. One rainy day in 1937, Dad and my uncle stayed with Grandpa to watch over the cabin while Grandma took all the smaller children to the safety of Portsmouth. Flood waters were rising steadily throughout the day and in the middle of the night, the trio scrambled out just in time to watch the river carry their home away. As devastating as that was, it eventually paled in magnitude to when Dad watched in horror as his family was scattered immediately after my Grandfather died several years later. In a whirlwind of events that defy comprehension, my Grandmother was forced to make decisions that no mother should have to make. Two of the youngest children would remain with her, older ones would go to the county children's home and, at 15 years old, my Dad found himself alone in the world, fending for himself. Until he was old enough to join the army, he would move from place to place, seeking hospitality from relatives and finding work wherever he could. On the weekends, my Dad would regularly gather all his spare pennies and walk the thirteen miles from West Portsmouth to the Scioto County Children's home in Wheelersburg where his sisters were kept. There they would visit and play while they enjoyed the little bit of candy he could afford to buy on his way. This is the kind of love that refines the hearts of men.

Family was the fabric that gave my Dad his strength. Family was his purpose. It was his reason for living. On a beautiful June day in 1952, he began a family of his own by marrying the woman that he deeply and faithfully loved for the remainder of his life. Dad and Mom actually had seven of us kids in total but a brother that I never knew tragically died as an infant in California. Dad carried his little blue casket through the cemetery and he carried my mother through the devastation and depression that followed. For the rest of us, no matter the occasion, no matter the event, no matter the accomplishment, there was never a doubt that our Dad was the president of each of our individual fan clubs. The love and pride he had for his kids and grandkids was a selfless sacrificial kind of love that my words could never do justice. If the world were against us and tomorrow held no promise, we never doubted that Dad's love was true and unconditional. There was no one that we wanted to share our victories with more than him, and each of us knew that secretly, deep down we were really his favorite. Did we frustrate him? Absolutely! Did we test his patience? You'd better believe it! Was there discipline when it was needed? Oh yeah! Was he there to comfort us and encourage us anytime, anywhere? Without a doubt! When we lost Dad, I think we each looked over our shoulder and despaired, "Who could possibly fill that huge gap in my corner?"

I am Arnold Noel's youngest child and this eulogy is written from the perspective of my memories, my thoughts and my eyes. If it had been written by anyone else, the words and tone may be different and no doubt some of the illustrations and sentiments would not be the same. There is so much more of his story that deserves to be told! One thing is certain, though: No matter the author, any tale of my Dad would record that he was a hard-working, honest, and sincere man. He was a kind, tender, and loving man. He was a humble man and above all else: Arnold Noel was a good man. He was the best of us and the world was truly a better place with him in it.

Arnold Noel 1929-1991