CLIFFORD UNDERWOOD
A letter written by Fern in December, 1973

Recently I found an undated letter I wrote to those who were asking for details of our accident. Sue lived in Hollywood, and Van was in the Navy school in Monterey at the time. I wrote:

On December 14, 1973, Clifford and I went to California for an early Christmas with Van and Sue, flying from Des Moines to San Francisco and on to Monterey. I have never seen Clifford more "keyed up." This was not unusual for him, except the degree. Everything we knew him to be, he was just "more so" on this trip.

Fog delayed our landing in San Francisco, and thus our arrival time in Monterey. Mid­afternoon when we reached the house, where Van was living with a fellow student, Howard, we unpacked Christmas gifts and made food plans for a Saturday party Van was planning for us and his friends. About 5:00, Van took us to eat at a restaurant next door to an NAPA store. This was the national company Clifford was associated with, his wholesale supplier of auto parts. Van had made himself known to the owner and planned to take his dad to meet him. On the way back to the house, we left our luggage at a motel where Clifford and I would stay.

About 8:00 p.m. we left for the 70-mile trip so San Jose, to meet the plane on which Sue and her roommate, Paulette, were coming The fog was dense enough in the Monterey area that Van had called San Jose to make sure flights were on schedule. That area was clear, no problem. A point that seemed insignificant at the time, was that whenever we got into the car it was a toss­up which of us would ride in front with Van. On this occasion both to and from the airport, it happened to be Clifford. We all routinely fastened our seat belts.

We picked up the girls and started back to Monterey, and were within a few miles of our destination when the accident happened. We were having such a good time. We'd been recalling fun things that had happened recently and long ago. Suddenly we were stopped. There was no grinding crash, no horror of seeing what was going to happen before it did. I was sitting behind Van and his size and the fog prevented me from seeing anything, but I doubt that any of us saw anything. There was no possible way to avoid what accident. We were simply stopped. It developed that a very drunk driver of a car ahead of us crossed the center line and side-swiped a truck, causing the box to fly around and hit us.

Clifford was knocked unconscious immediately. His head probably hit the side window. Van was also knocked unconscious and I reached around him, relieved to discover he was not pinned by the steering wheel. Paulette was thrown against the side and said at once she was sure she had a broken arm. Her face was cut badly enough that there was a good deal of blood.

Almost immediately other cars stopped. A black man appeared at the passenger side of the car and tried to pull Clifford out. Bucket seats allowed me to step over into the front seat to unfasten his seat belt. The man pulled him out and laid him on the ground. From this point on, I have only snatches of memory: Someone covered Clifford., someone took care of Paulette. Patrolmen appeared. People tried to rouse Van, but when he came anywhere near consciousness, he groaned badly. It is possible his knee was jammed against the dash. They were unable to free him until they lifted the truck that had hit us or fallen on us. (Days later Van went to the car to retrieve something. He could barely get his arm through the space from the steering wheel side so he is not sure how he was freed, or how any of us survived.)

Two ladies, who were with the black man, led me to their car to help me get warm and wash off the blood. A young man, who in those days we would have defined "a hippie," was much in evidence, very kind and concerned, as were all who appeared on the scene. Sue came through with two extremely black eyes and a lump on her forehead, but she was able to function. She knows two wreckers came. The first was unable to raise the truck, but imagine her awe when the second one raised it and she saw in large letters on the side of the box: NAPA.

We were taken to the Fort Ord Military Hospital, where we were put in separate rooms. Attendants came and went but no one could or would tell me about anyone. Finally someone told me Clifford had been taken to Monterey Community Hospital, where there was a neuro­surgeon. Van slipped in and out of consciousness. One of the military men drove Sue and me to the Monterey hospital, where again there was such kindness and consideration. We met the surgeon who sat down with us and with gentleness and honesty said something like this: "I have examined your husband and he has a severe injury. I do not expect him to live for 24 hours and there is nothing to be done about it. He could not survive surgery. If he should live and become strong enough for surgery, the injury is such that if he survived it, he would never have the same personality. For all purposes, he is dead now except that his heart keeps beating and with mechanical help, he is breathing." I had watched his mother live helpless, totally dependent for nearly three years as I result of a stroke and from the moment we heard the doctor's report, I could not wish for Clifford to live. This man dependent? Unable to function in his usual way? No! There was nothing we could do to help and the doctor insisted we leave.

I am not sure how the following events occurred. Somehow we got Van's house keys, found the motel to get our luggage, and Van's house. The next day Howard and his fiancée took us to the hospital, where Clifford died about 10:30 a.m. We made phone calls with the news. Sue insisted her uncles should be there — Clifford's brother, Bill, and my brother, Bob. They came and took care of necessary arrangements which neither Sue nor I would have known to do. On the following weekend all of us, including Van, flew home. Family and friends came for a service we held for Clifford and there was a huge exodus Sunday afternoon.

Suddenly it was Monday morning. What now? Nothing in my life was as it had been when we left for California several weeks earlier. Slowly I began to return to reality and realize that during the year, three significant people associated with Clifford's business had died during the year — Merle Davenport from the shop, Ruby Andrews from the office, now Clifford. Surely the ones left must need help, so I reported in and "helped" for 12 years. I choose not to expand on the difficulties. I had only worked between bookkeepers and only knew the principals of conducting a successful business as I had gained them, maybe by osmosis, from my father and Clifford. We continued Clifford's practices and with much help, I slowly learned to cope with widowhood.

He insisted on fun and found it where most people failed, or never thought to look. He found it in watching a migration of ants across the back-yard. He found it in counting the many species of birds that inhabited a certain tree, and in watching their activities. Last July, for the first time, he saw bees swarming in Brown's tree across the street. He took a lawn chair and studied the process for hours, disappointed only that he did not see them leave while he was at work the next day.

Most of all he wanted to share these experiences with others. "Come and see this! I've found something I want to show you!" But few people marched to the same drum beat as Clifford. Usually they were busy with something else. They did not have the ability to see or the knowledge to appreciate what he saw.

Clifford made an adventure of going to work in the morning. Up at 5:00 or 6:00, he anticipated each day. By 8:00 he was showered and dressed; he had read and heard the news, covering the morning paper from cover to cover. He sang, often, as he came downstairs to leave for work. Yesterday was completely behind him; today was a new beginning and he was anxious to get into it. The very gait of his walk indicated that he had places to go and things to do.

He loved to remember one morning when he came upon a little old man with a cane who had heard him approaching behind him -- then stepped off the sidewalk out of the way to let him pass. As Clifford came up even with him, the man grinned at him and asked, "Are you going all the way today?" For a long time Clifford reflected on that remark which had served to remind him that there is another day after this one and that there is a danger of rushing by life so fast that you miss it.

Few of us have known people whose minds worked as fast and hard. By the time most of us reached a point in time or a situation, Clifford had already been there; faced it; reckoned with and evaluated the pro's and con's of it; and reached what seemed to him the best conclusion, or solution.

Underwood Auto Supply was more than a way to make money. He loved his work; he took pride in his organization; he felt very close to his employees and was always wondering how to make the job better for them. He never felt resentful if an employee left for another job, saying, "I wouldn't want the kind of person who was not always looking for ways to better himself."

Clifford was a deeply spiritual person and a member of The United Methodist Church (even though seldom seen in services). It was very difficult for him to gear his mind to a slower pace, and when he did, he fell asleep. Yet, he was well acquainted with many of the radio religious services. He often assured persons whom he knew to be troubled about something -- "I'll be praying for you" — and he said it in such a simple, straightforward manner that it assured them that they would receive help in this way.

Clifford believed that God expected him to help carry out what was to be done. God had given him a good mind and expected him to use it to the very best of his ability, and to keep it clean in his thoughts, and clear of grudges and resentments. He had given Clifford a body that was strong and healthy; it was Clifford's responsibilty to keep it clean and in good repair. He had never tasted hard liquor, beer, or even coffee. He never smoked a cigarette and tried every possible means of persuasion to discourage others from smoking. God had given him a clear eye and a world to explore; and he did about four average lifetimes of exploring crowded into one. A favorite expression of his was, "the good Lord has given man all kinds of answers that man hasn't thought of the questions for."

Some years ago a book was written about The Last Angry Man — portraying a character who cared very much in an apathetic world. This character was not the last angry man; for Clifford lived in this tradition. Congressmen, the Governor, other persons of influence continually heard Clifford's views on what was taking place -- complementary and otherwise. He was presently formulating a letter to President Nixon to say, in effect, "You seem to be treating us like children! — Like we aren't capable of understanding and so can't be told the facts!"

He had a high regard for other persons and deep respect, also, for himself. He had a standard practice in his business and that was that! His rule was not "the customer is always right" because the customer is not always right! It was his store, a standard procedure, and everyone was treated according to that procedure. He often counseled with young fellows who were going into business; and with customers who were facing difficulty in meeting their obligations. They found in him a sympathetic listener who was willing to work with them in every way he could. Their account represented a contract the two of them had entered into; and for the self-respect of each it was important that this contract be fulfilled.

He regarded as one of his greatest recent honors the day he was invited to speak to a high school class regarding finances. He worked very hard on that talk and agonized over it very seriously; for what he wanted to tell he regarded of utmost importance. Either the person is the master and money an effective servant, or, if the person does not take the upperhand, or does not know how to handle money, the situation is reversed and money gets the better of the person. It becomes the master and the person the slave. His favorite book was The Richest Man in Babylon and the lesson in it that came through loud and clear, and by which he lived, was "ask the expert". If you have a problem to face, a decision to make, don't bother with the advice of one who is no better informed than yourself. Ask the expert in that field.

Clifford valued nothing in life higher than family and friends. Doing for people, "giving flowers to the living", these were not only what he believed but what he did. Many persons know this from his faithfulness in acknowledging birthdays and anniversaries. It was his pleasure and challenge to devise unusual and clever ways to say, "This is your special day and we are thinking of you."

He loved to compete, physically and mentally. He expected to razz his competition and his team mates and to be razzed by them in return. There is a tendency for that to become, on occasion, too extreme and some people have approached him afterward to explain and apologize for something that had been said. Clifford's answer was, "I can't imagine anything you would say to me that would hurt my feelings." He was that secure. He could face himself as he was, with his own thoughts and actions and know that they were right — or at least the best he knew at that point in time. He was not trying to win the approval of others; he was trying to live with himself. He had a personal rule: don't let another's treatment of you deteimine your treatment of them. In other words, if they act in ways less than their best toward you, don't let your response be less than your best. A poet has written something of the same thought:

When you get what you want in your struggle for self
And the world makes you king for a day,
Just go to a mirror and look at yourself,
And see what THAT man has to say.
For it isn't your father of mother or wife
Whose judgment upon you must pass;
The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the one staring back from the glass.
Some people may think you a straight-shootin' chum
And call you a wonderful guy,
But the man in the glass says you're only a bum
If you can't look him straight in the eye.
He's the fellow to please, Never mind all the rest
For he's with you clear to the end.
And you've passed your most dangerous, difficult test
If the man in the glass is your friend.
You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years
And get pats on the back as you pass.
But your final reward will be heartaches and tears
If you've cheated the man in the glass.
Author Unknown

Clifford could not spell, so he expected his secretaries to take care of that. He enjoyed that someone had one time said, "I never could trust a man who couldn't think of more than one way to spell a word." He had a poor memory for names; but dismissed it with the fun of saying, "I used to have a hard time remembering names until I took the Sam Carnegie course."

He anticipated a trip to Russia, offered by a company with which he dealt. Even though a poor time of year to visit there he commented, "When I hear of an opportunity I start right away trying to figure out how to take advantage of it instead of reasons not to." He had written to his friend, Rev. Adam Kuczma in Poland, and said he wanted to learn to say two things in Russian: "Have a good day" and "Thank you."

Clifford was having a great time when the accident happened. He was with his children of whom he was so proud! They are living responsible lives in their chosen fields; the highest attainment of life in his estimation. He was knocked unconscious by the impact and never regained consciousness. Several hours later a neuro-surgeon infomed Sue and Fern, "To all purposes he is dead now — only his heart keeps beating. We could not perform surgery because he could not survive it now. If he does live and become strong enough for surgery, the brain damage is so severe that he would never have the same personality. It will be the greatest blessing if he can go within hours, which I expect will happen."

Having watched his paralyzed mother, unable to communicate for nearly three years, and his father advance into senility in his 90's, we can all know this would not be Clifford's choice. His determination was that he would not get old — at any age — and he loved to say that if he could choose his way to go he would like to be shot to death by a jealous husband, at the age of 95.

This has no end because Clifford's life is not ended. No person who has met him will be untouched by him. He allowed us all to be ourselves; yet, there was a point at which his standards would not be compromised; and the set of his jaw would indicate and, in memory, will continue to indicate a right choice in contrast to a wrong. It is beyond the realm of possibility that this vibrant person has ceased to be. He is removed from our physical senses but not from us! He has gone on ahead of us and will be waiting for us. He has lived in the realm of Truth and Love for a long time. It will not be strange to him And if he can be helping to prepare a place for us, this will be a continuation of what he has been doing all his earthly life.

OPEN LETTER FROM FERN:

The occasion for which we are gathered is not unique. Probably every one of you here has had just such an occasion for a member of your family -- you have already been down the road Van and Sue and I are going.

But I want to say that this experience has confirmed at least three things for me. We all have theories about life but they remain theory until there is a way to prove or disprove. Therefore, now I know , and not just believe, (1) that there is reality in thought telepathy. We have literally felt and been sustained by your affection and concern for us, back here in Iowa.

(2) The fabulous goodness of people everywhere! We were not alone! The kindness, the ministry of those who stopped to give us aid, to take us to hospitals, to speak to us in truth through those first hours proves that people have not become impersonal and apathetic. They do not turn away fearful of getting involved. And Van's friends provided every need and more in the days following our tragedy.

(3) Most of you would know that I am a student of the Bible and closely associated with my own and other churches and spiritual groups. I have done this because of my own inclination and for strengthening in my daily life; but gloriously I have discovered that, just as the Bible promised, Jesus does become the Rock for the time of death.

We, therefore, are grateful to each of you. If I might have a word of tender concern for you, I ask that you give a thought that each of us will walk the road Clifford has walked. Think on these things — not morbidly but by way of preparation.

— Let's review our values.
— Let's look at our priorities.
— What will we take with us?
— And what will we leave behind?

A writing of Benjamin Franklin supports what I believe about death:

We are spirits. That bodies should be lent us, while they can afford us pleasure,
assist us in acquiring knowledge,
or in doing good to our fellow creatures,
is a kind and benevolent act of God.

When they become unfit for these purposes,
and afford us pain instead of pleasure,
instead of an aid become an incumbrance,
and answer none of the intentions for which they were given,
it is equally kind and benevolent that a way is provided by which we may be
rid of them. Death is that way.

Our friend and we were invited abroad on a party of pleasure, which is to last forever. His chair was ready first and he has gone before us.

We could not all conveniently start together; and why should you and I be grieved at this, since we are soon to follow and know where to find him?

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Last Revised March 3, 2014