The Old Man's Hero

The Old Man has a hero. You don't know him yet, but when you finish this posting, I hope you will. Were he still bodily with us, he would be 105 tomorrow, Oct. 11. He was born of sharecropper parents in Pittsylvania County, Va. He grew up in a hard-scrabble way on a small tobacco farm. His parents instilled in him and his siblings (all younger) the values of American virtue and patriotism. I've heard tell that his grandfather was a preacher. I can't vouch for that, but as I began to grow and be aware, I saw evidence that the apple truly didn't fall too far from the tree.

He left home early and began to make his way in the world. A self-taught photographer, he became proficient enough to earn a living. He also learned lithographic printing and began to integrate himself into the world of graphics. Uncle Sam needed him and around 1929 or so, he joined the Army. Attached to an Engineer Battalion, he spent time in Nicaragua assisting in rescue and recovery efforts after a devastating earthquake. On my wall is his citation; The Soldiers Medal for Heroism, given for his efforts and his going 3 days without food or water while digging out survivors.

Fresh from the Army, he met Miss Alma. She ran a little sandwich shop (she called it in the parlance of the day, "Luncheonette"). They married in 1934 and 7 years later, The Old Man appeared. There would be no more. Perhaps I was the original "Termi-Nater". After all, you've already learned about the cherry bomb, the slingshot, and the life of crime in the watermelon patch. As I grew and began to go out for activities with my friends, he would always say, "See you later, Bud." In his own way, he was acknowledging my growth and the different plane our relationship had reached.

Dad could preach a sermon with the best of 'em. In the early '50's a circuit preacher in the county was badly burned in a fire. Dad "rode" his circuit for 2 years, preaching at one of 4 different churches each Sunday. All this in addition to his regular job at a label printing plant, and active participation in our own church. One of my prized possessions is the secretary where Dad kept his books and prepared his sermons. The surface is scratched and marred from his note taking. The scratches remain as a point of contact for me, and sometimes I walk by and just lightly touch them. It brings me peace.

My hero had a marvelous sense of humor. You've read about the "protective hat" and the disastrous attempt at skunk removal. Dad would laugh until tears came into his eyes over some of his mishaps. He was ever the clown, even when his health began to decline. He suffered from stomach ulcers in a day when there was no Zantac, Nexium, or Prilosec. There was only milk, eggs, and cream, all of which conspired to clog his arteries to the point they surrendered and he suffered his third and final heart attack while recovering in the hospital from his second.

We buried Dad on New Year's Day, 1964. He was only 60 years old. He never got to hold his two wonderful granddaughters that he would have been totally captivated by. He never knew that, coincidentally, I spent a career in the printing business. Even after all these years, I still sometimes catch myself with the fleeting thought, "Wait 'til I tell dad".

He taught me to love the Lord, life, and laughter, and they are lessons that I treasure to this day.

Because of his teachings I know I can say with all confidence, "See you later, Bud."