Abe Lincoln and my Dad
By Charles E. Kraus
Published in The Oregonian 6/17/18
Abe Lincoln was born on the same day as my father. This was no coincidence. My father told me to say that.
Both these great men have ceased to walk the topsoil. In the old days, my old days, it was handy that the state we lived in recognized Mr. Lincoln's birthday, even going so far as to make it a holiday called Lincoln's Birthday. Signs of the approaching festivities reminded me to pick up a card for my dad. I don't recall getting one for Abe.
When my father drove out of New York State for the last time, heading to life in California, the license plate on his American Rambler began with the letters HH. Began, or ended, or had two consecutive H's somewhere in the mix. His lady friend, who went along for the ride, speculated that HH stood for Honest Harold. Harold was his first name, and he was easily as honest as Lincoln. Lincoln didn't even have a license plate.
My father never registered to vote. He claimed it made him eligible for jury duty, and though he was honest, he wasn't particularly civic minded. Obviously, Lincoln had the urge to participate in good government efforts. He was a state legislator, a congressman, a President. He freed the slaves. My father freed my mother.
President Lincoln was more than just a great emancipator. He was also a great people manipulator. I learned this from the historian Steven Spielberg. My father had limited social skills. I learned this from personal observation. Dad didn't try to persuade by means of reason or evidence. His preferred methods involved escalating volume and increasing dramatic facial expressions.
And still ... and yet?... these birthday boys share more than the hashtag #February12thparty. Lincoln once walked six miles to return a few cents that he’d over charged a customer. My father liked to walk, too.
When I was a about seven, we were on a family vacation somewhere so exotic that residents didn’t even have New York accents. One day I found a wallet. This was before the invention of credit cards, so the only thing it contained other than an ID was a wad of cash. For ten seconds I considered myself rich. But then my father budded in. No, he assured me, the ethical principle was not Finders Keepers Losers Weepers. It was, Send Back To Others What They Rightly Owned. He paid the postage.
Oh sure, it was easy for dad to be Honest Harold. He hadn’t found the damn wallet. Reluctantly, I complied with his recommendation that it be returned.
The following week, I received a letter from the wallet’s owner. It was probably the first letter ever addressed to me. It contained a thank you note, plus a five dollar reward for my honesty. It was actually a five dollar reward for my father’s honesty.
All Lincoln did was give back three cents. Even with inflation, we beat him by a mile. I was allowed to kept the five spot.
And so, with February 12th approaching, I think of Mr. Lincoln as the Great Emancipator, and my father as one of the first people to every have a personalized license plate.
