Dan Knauf wrote this to us, a touching dedication to his father who recently passed away
Subject: My toughest writing assignment
Posted by: "Daniel Knauf"
Fri Jul 28, 2006 6:30 pm (PST)
My dad died last week. The reason I wanted to share this with you
guys is because he was the inspiration for Samson. Virtually every
memorable line spoken by Michael was either something my dad said
("Dig the stupid outta your ears," "It's your turn in the barrel.")
or was inspired by his character.
I ended up with the assignment of writing his obituary, which
follows as it was published in several of the local papers:
____________________________________
John H. Knauf, 79, of Monarch Beach, CA, long time resident of La Canada, CA, died Monday, July 17, 2006 in his home after a brief illness.
Mr. Knauf was born in Winona, MN, May 24, 1927, the son of Val E. and Mae Knauf. Upon graduation from Loyola High School, Los Angeles, CA, he enlisted in the United States Navy, and served honorably on the destroyer, U.S.S. Purdy, during the post-World War II occupation of Japan. Upon his discharge, Mr. Knauf attended college at Loyola University in Los Angeles, where he received his Bachelor of Arts in Business.
While attending college, he married Dorothy A. Schmidt on June 11th, 1949. Upon graduation, Mr. Knauf was employed as a Group Sales Representative for Pacific Mutual Life Insurance Company, managing
offices in St. Louis, MO, and New Orleans, LA.. In 1953, he returned to Glendale, CA, where he co-founded Knauf Insurance Agency with his brother, Ted Knauf.
In 1960, Mr. Knauf was stricken with post-polio syndrome. He was thereafter permanently confined to a wheelchair, a challenge he met and accepted with marked grace and courage.
In 1970, Mr. Knauf founded Personnel Benefit Systems, an independent insurance brokerage specializing in group employee benefits. Among his roster of clients were the City of Glendale and Zero-Halliburton
Company. He served on a number of professional advisory panels and was a founding member of the Los Angeles Employee Benefit Planning Association. He was also very active in his church, St. Bede the
Venerable, as well as his community, serving as president of the Glendale Serra Club (1975 - 1976), the Glendale Lions Club (1977 - 1978), and a number of civic boards and the Glendale Community
Development Advisory Council.
Subsequent to his retirement in 1990, Mr. Knauf and his wife moved to the seaside community of Monarch Beach, CA, where he continued to be active as a volunteer with his parish, St Edwards, in Dana Point,
CA, founding the First Friday Friars Club. He was an avid fisherman and enjoyed opera, gardening, and spending time with friends and family. He is survived by his devoted wife, Dorothy Knauf; loving
daughter, Kathleen Lieber; beloved sons, John H. Knauf, Jr., Paul E. Knauf and Daniel Knauf; beloved brother, Theodore Knauf; beloved sister, Kay Knauf, and 11 grandchildren.
__________________________________________
It's humbling being raised by a hero.
One night, Dad awoke and realized he couldn't move his legs. That's how quickly it happened. The previous afternoon, he'd played a rigorous game of tennis with a friend. 24 hours later, he was in a
room at L.A. Orthopedic Hospital, being told that he'd never regain the use of his legs.
Can you imagine? No warning, no symptoms, no slow degeneration, not even a horrible accident. Just BOOM. Sorry, Jack, your legs don't work no more.
I was two, so I have no memory of the event. My older brothers, though, remember kids approaching them at school and saying, "Wow. I guess you guys are gonna be poor now."
That may seem callous, but it was a reasonable conclusion for those kids to make back in 1960. There were no ramped curbs, no "handicapped access" anything, no special parking places, no Americans with Disabilities Act. If you were confined to a wheelchair, you were sidelined professionally and (often) socially. One very rarely saw a disabled person in public. Most were expected to be invisible--inconvenient, unwanted reminders of fate's capriciousness.
I never asked my dad whether he was tempted to drop out of the game. Frankly, I don't think it ever occurred to him. When people stated their admiration for his decision to continue working after
he was bound to the chair was usually a terse, "What the hell else was I gonna do?"
There are lots of answers for that question. He could've, for instance, dropped out of public life. He could've exploited his disability, demanding special accomodations, using guilt like a cudgel on his friends and family. He could've started drinking to excess. He could've bitched and moaned and complained about what a raw deal he got. He could have grown bitter and enraged. Or pathetic and whiney.
But the fact that my dad actually thought the answer to that question was self-evident speaks volumes, not only bout his humility, but his faith in his fellow man. He truly thought that his heroism was no more than what anyone would've done in the same situation.
"Carnivale" and its treatment of freaks was very much informed by my experiences growing up in a household in which the breadwinner was a paraplegic. I remember the whispers, the politely averted stares when we went out as a family.
My father was a curiosity. People wanted to know how he ended up in that chair, yet they were afraid to simply ask. They thought it might be rude or hurtful, I suppose. It didn't really matter to any
of us one way or another.
If someone worked up the courage to ask, none of us minded telling the story. The question really had no more emotional whallop than an inquiry as to the time or the day of the week. It was just something that happened. No more. No less. As a family, it's clear to me now that we took our cues from the old man.
Dad wasn't a saint. He was just this guy who couldn't walk and made the best of it. He sold insurance. He supported us. He taught us right from wrong. My mom never had to enter the workforce. We lived in a nice house in a nice neighborhood. Two of us graduated from college. None of us are in jail. We've all done okay.
The lessons of "Carnivale" are the lessons I learned from living with my father. My main goal was to show that no matter how unusual a character appeared or presented him/herself, it didn't take long
to recognize their humanity.
We all have so much in common, and yet we continue to attach grossly inordinate importance to our differences. The fact that there are individuals in this world who would take great pleasure in seeing
someone dead because of his creed, color or nationality strikes me as almost laughably absurd. But there it is.
MADDY: Gremmie says ya'll are marked.
BEN: Nah. They're not marked. Just people, that's all.
Unlike my brothers, I have no memory of my father standing. For me, he was always in the wheelchair.
I will die someday, and if I play my cards right, I'll see him again, though I fear it will take me a moment to recognize him as he walks toward me.
D.
Posted by: "Daniel Knauf"
Fri Jul 28, 2006 6:30 pm (PST)
My dad died last week. The reason I wanted to share this with you
guys is because he was the inspiration for Samson. Virtually every
memorable line spoken by Michael was either something my dad said
("Dig the stupid outta your ears," "It's your turn in the barrel.")
or was inspired by his character.
I ended up with the assignment of writing his obituary, which
follows as it was published in several of the local papers:
____________________________________
John H. Knauf, 79, of Monarch Beach, CA, long time resident of La Canada, CA, died Monday, July 17, 2006 in his home after a brief illness.
Mr. Knauf was born in Winona, MN, May 24, 1927, the son of Val E. and Mae Knauf. Upon graduation from Loyola High School, Los Angeles, CA, he enlisted in the United States Navy, and served honorably on the destroyer, U.S.S. Purdy, during the post-World War II occupation of Japan. Upon his discharge, Mr. Knauf attended college at Loyola University in Los Angeles, where he received his Bachelor of Arts in Business.
While attending college, he married Dorothy A. Schmidt on June 11th, 1949. Upon graduation, Mr. Knauf was employed as a Group Sales Representative for Pacific Mutual Life Insurance Company, managing
offices in St. Louis, MO, and New Orleans, LA.. In 1953, he returned to Glendale, CA, where he co-founded Knauf Insurance Agency with his brother, Ted Knauf.
In 1960, Mr. Knauf was stricken with post-polio syndrome. He was thereafter permanently confined to a wheelchair, a challenge he met and accepted with marked grace and courage.
In 1970, Mr. Knauf founded Personnel Benefit Systems, an independent insurance brokerage specializing in group employee benefits. Among his roster of clients were the City of Glendale and Zero-Halliburton
Company. He served on a number of professional advisory panels and was a founding member of the Los Angeles Employee Benefit Planning Association. He was also very active in his church, St. Bede the
Venerable, as well as his community, serving as president of the Glendale Serra Club (1975 - 1976), the Glendale Lions Club (1977 - 1978), and a number of civic boards and the Glendale Community
Development Advisory Council.
Subsequent to his retirement in 1990, Mr. Knauf and his wife moved to the seaside community of Monarch Beach, CA, where he continued to be active as a volunteer with his parish, St Edwards, in Dana Point,
CA, founding the First Friday Friars Club. He was an avid fisherman and enjoyed opera, gardening, and spending time with friends and family. He is survived by his devoted wife, Dorothy Knauf; loving
daughter, Kathleen Lieber; beloved sons, John H. Knauf, Jr., Paul E. Knauf and Daniel Knauf; beloved brother, Theodore Knauf; beloved sister, Kay Knauf, and 11 grandchildren.
__________________________________________
It's humbling being raised by a hero.
One night, Dad awoke and realized he couldn't move his legs. That's how quickly it happened. The previous afternoon, he'd played a rigorous game of tennis with a friend. 24 hours later, he was in a
room at L.A. Orthopedic Hospital, being told that he'd never regain the use of his legs.
Can you imagine? No warning, no symptoms, no slow degeneration, not even a horrible accident. Just BOOM. Sorry, Jack, your legs don't work no more.
I was two, so I have no memory of the event. My older brothers, though, remember kids approaching them at school and saying, "Wow. I guess you guys are gonna be poor now."
That may seem callous, but it was a reasonable conclusion for those kids to make back in 1960. There were no ramped curbs, no "handicapped access" anything, no special parking places, no Americans with Disabilities Act. If you were confined to a wheelchair, you were sidelined professionally and (often) socially. One very rarely saw a disabled person in public. Most were expected to be invisible--inconvenient, unwanted reminders of fate's capriciousness.
I never asked my dad whether he was tempted to drop out of the game. Frankly, I don't think it ever occurred to him. When people stated their admiration for his decision to continue working after
he was bound to the chair was usually a terse, "What the hell else was I gonna do?"
There are lots of answers for that question. He could've, for instance, dropped out of public life. He could've exploited his disability, demanding special accomodations, using guilt like a cudgel on his friends and family. He could've started drinking to excess. He could've bitched and moaned and complained about what a raw deal he got. He could have grown bitter and enraged. Or pathetic and whiney.
But the fact that my dad actually thought the answer to that question was self-evident speaks volumes, not only bout his humility, but his faith in his fellow man. He truly thought that his heroism was no more than what anyone would've done in the same situation.
"Carnivale" and its treatment of freaks was very much informed by my experiences growing up in a household in which the breadwinner was a paraplegic. I remember the whispers, the politely averted stares when we went out as a family.
My father was a curiosity. People wanted to know how he ended up in that chair, yet they were afraid to simply ask. They thought it might be rude or hurtful, I suppose. It didn't really matter to any
of us one way or another.
If someone worked up the courage to ask, none of us minded telling the story. The question really had no more emotional whallop than an inquiry as to the time or the day of the week. It was just something that happened. No more. No less. As a family, it's clear to me now that we took our cues from the old man.
Dad wasn't a saint. He was just this guy who couldn't walk and made the best of it. He sold insurance. He supported us. He taught us right from wrong. My mom never had to enter the workforce. We lived in a nice house in a nice neighborhood. Two of us graduated from college. None of us are in jail. We've all done okay.
The lessons of "Carnivale" are the lessons I learned from living with my father. My main goal was to show that no matter how unusual a character appeared or presented him/herself, it didn't take long
to recognize their humanity.
We all have so much in common, and yet we continue to attach grossly inordinate importance to our differences. The fact that there are individuals in this world who would take great pleasure in seeing
someone dead because of his creed, color or nationality strikes me as almost laughably absurd. But there it is.
MADDY: Gremmie says ya'll are marked.
BEN: Nah. They're not marked. Just people, that's all.
Unlike my brothers, I have no memory of my father standing. For me, he was always in the wheelchair.
I will die someday, and if I play my cards right, I'll see him again, though I fear it will take me a moment to recognize him as he walks toward me.
D.