Mark Payne Memories

This weekend marked what would’ve been the 67th birthday for my dad, Mark Payne, who was born on January 25, 1953. This year is a milestone one since we lost him unexpectedly, because this coming March will be 20 years. I was 22 when the call came.

My dad was someone who wanted better and expected more from his kids than what he had growing up. He was also someone who got pulled back into bad habits, so he often balanced that tight rope.

Mark Edward Payne was born in Maryville, Nodaway Co., Missouri. He was the oldest of five kids born to Milo Howard Payne and Lois June Reynolds (who went by June), who had married in 1944 in Doniphan, Ripley Co., Missouri. Following Mark were siblings Robert (Bob) in 1955 also in Maryville; Mary in 1956 in Pocatello, Idaho; Terry in 1958 in Pocatello; and Cora in 1960 in Pocatello.

June (b. 1923 in Savannah, Andrew Co., Missouri) had grown up not far from Maryville. Milo (b. 1924) was born in and lived in Bridgeport, Morrill Co. in western Nebraska until after his mother’s death in 1936. By 1939, he, his father and siblings moved to Idaho. According to a much later obituary for Milo’s brother William, the family moved west due to drought conditions in Nebraska.

Tough Years

Unfortunately, 1960 and 1961 were both traumatic years for the young family. Although Cora was born in January 1960, Terry passed away in July of that year at age two. He suffered from an accidental poisoning after drinking one ounce of methyl salicylate, also known as the oil of wintergreen. While this is an ingredient in many medicines and treatments, ingestion of it can be fatal. About 12 hours after Terry drank it, he was gone.

Just seven months later, Milo passed away at age 37 in Ogden, Utah. On February 4, 1961, he was found dead in a car at the intersection of 18th St. and Grant Ave., according to his death certificate. His cause of death was listed as unknown. However, the family knows that Milo struggled with alcoholism. He was a World War II veteran. (I don’t know much about his time in the military; however, the paperwork for his military gravestone says he was a private first class in the US Army’s 291st Infantry Regiment. He enlisted in January 1941 and was honorable discharged in July 1945. The record says he was awarded the Bronze Star Medal and the Purple Heart. He had been officially discharged after already marrying June.)

Suddenly, my dad was the man of the family at age 9. June was a single mom of four kids ages one to nine. Not long after Milo’s death, she moved the kids back to where her family was located in NW Missouri and SW Iowa. She struggled in supporting the kids and with her health and mental health. Her brother Ed and her wife helped raise dad, Bob, Mary and Cora – but, they were not well off either. My dad was raised in pretty extreme poverty.

Coming of Age

Dad graduated from high school in Mt. Ayr, Iowa, in 1971. His high school yearbook said he might go into the military, but he did not go that route. Dad worked in construction quite a bit, and in 1975, he was working a job in Rock Rapids, Iowa, which just happened to be my mom’s hometown. So, guess what? That’s where they met.

I recently visited with my mom Peggy to learn more about the circumstances about their meeting. Mom had been back at home with her parents after graduation from Clarke College in Dubuque, Iowa. The state of Iowa had just reduced high school requirements for Spanish to get into college, so the number of high school Spanish jobs dried up.

Mom told me that she had seen him in town a time or two and finally talked to him in person in one of the local bars. It wasn’t long before they were married (January 31, 1976), and then I came along.

Our Family

I’m the oldest of the four kids born to Mark and Peggy. Next came Michael (Mike), Tara and then later Caitlin.

In my early years, we lived in southern Iowa where my dad grew up. Dad was still in construction or painting, while mom was raising the three of us who were born in a four-year span. Then, he got a wild hair (not the first or only time) to do something different. We moved to Cyril, Oklahoma, where he worked in the oil fields. We only stayed over a year. I attended my 1st grade year of school there, but then in 2nd grade, we moved to my mom’s hometown of Rock Rapids, where we stayed. Up through 7th grade, we lived on an acreage just a mile from my maternal grandparents, Gerald and Isabelle Munns. Then, we moved to the second house on the Munns farm, the original house on the land that had been in my mom’s family since the 1880s.

Besides some construction or farm work, dad mostly stuck to painting, and started up his own business where he did commercial painting. We are talking about painting grain elevators and water towers. In fact, he had done some of this work in southern Iowa before we moved to Oklahoma. I very much remember dad painting a standpipe north of Ellston, Iowa, where we lived when I was in kindergarten. My mom cut out the letter “stencil” for the standpipe wording out of tag board all masking taped together.

Because of his painting business, he was always looking for a new project. We never took a direct, fast route anywhere. We would take the scenic route, and he’d stop to take tons of photos of small town water towers and grain elevators with our 110mm camera. Even on the way to drop my off for college at Iowa State, a four-hour trip lasted six hours due to his pit stops.

His Own Challenges

As much as I loved him, dad had his own challenges just as everyone else does. He had an addictive streak, smoking pretty much since his teen years, and like his own father, struggled with alcoholism. To be honest and transparent, he got in trouble because of it. I am a kid who visited my dad in jail more than one time – and even once in a minimum-security prison. I remember visiting him in long-term treatment and also sitting outside a courthouse when he was in a hearing. Unfortunately, money burned a hole in his pocket, so when he got paid “big” for the big jobs he’d do, he sometimes spent big or gambled – giving in to his vices, which could lead to him getting in trouble. Due to that and my mom’s teacher salary, we didn’t have a whole lot of extra money to go around.

He was not a perfect man, but he is still my dad. My mom was the rock and saint who got us through it all. Her parents were saints through these struggles as well.

His Pride

Dad was fiercely proud of his children and our accomplishments. As I wrote earlier, he wanted us to make a better life for ourselves. I remember how proud he was when I went to college, something my mom had done, but dad had not. I remember how excited he was that my brother Mike was a high school wrestler like my dad had been. Several of us kids ran track and/or cross country, activities he also did in high school. He was proud when some of us were inducted into the National Honor Society.

He was also thrilled to become a grandparent when my brother Mike and his wife Beth welcomed Taylor and Jayd into the world. Unfortunately, he never got to meet his seven other grandkids and his one great-granddaughter in person.

I remember how proud he was that Tara also attended college, and that his baby, Caitlin, was growing up to be a kind, fun girl. I also know he was proud of my mom and her hard work teaching high school Spanish, even if he disliked that she had to bring home papers to grade so much.

I’m sure my siblings and mom can provide other examples. I do remember myself how proud he was when I got my first job out of college at a local TV station, when I was actually a reporter on TV. At the time, there was a pop song called “Girl on TV” that came out. He bought the CD and played it over and over.  😉

His Interesting Obsession

I can say this is interesting now, but at the time, I thought he was crazy. Dad was obsessed with treasure hunting. Not gold mining, but hidden gold left behind or hidden by people like Jesse James. He was intrigued by the old west, subscribed to a gold hunting magazine and had pictures of rocks and mountains where he swore there were legends that led you to the treasure. We listened and rolled our eyes a lot then, but now I see it as something cute about him, and so do some of my childhood friends.

And to be honest, I’m not that much different in my obsession with genealogy and family history. (Thanks, dad.)

RIP

Dad died at age 47 on March 20, 2000, in Ames, Iowa, while he was away on a job roofing the silos at the Barilla Pasta plant there.

I have two regrets. The last time I saw him in person, he and I got in a petty argument – when I hadn’t argued with him in years. The day before he passed away, I was driving between two towns on my way home to Sioux Falls. I was only four miles away from my parents’ house, but I didn’t stop because I worked crazy overnight hours and needed to get to bed. If I had stopped, I would’ve seen him in person one more time and without the negative experience. My saving grace is we had forgiven each other for the petty argument during our last phone conversation before he passed.

We miss him. Love you, dad.
~Slainte! EPJ