Taking Time To Reflect
February 24, 2009 As I write this column, Thanksgiving is looming next week. It also marks the first anniversary of my father’s passing. We were blessed to have the whole family there when he left, and the curse that is Alzheimer’s disease ensured that we had many years to say goodbye and come to terms with his death.
He was a quiet guy, and it made it hard to understand some things about him when I was a kid. Now, at 43, some things are starting to come into clearer focus. I can understand the pressure he was under to support six kids with Mom at home. I can feel the aches and pains in the morning. Now, being the age he was when I was only 2 years old, I get it.
Over the past year, I’ve gotten a chance to talk to Mom about a lot of things that Dad swore her to secrecy about. One of the most important to me was his World War II experiences.
When I was a kid, my friends each had a Dad that regaled them with war stories. I knew my Dad had been over there from old picture albums and souvenirs around the house – I even knew that he met Mom at a post-war “meeting place” that women went to to meet returning soldiers (we weren’t allowed to say Mom and Dad met at a bar) – but virtually nothing else.
Anyway, Mom finally told me that Dad was embarrassed because he had gone through all the training and was about to be sent into battle when the war ended. Compounding the feelings he had was some of his very best friends who had gone in before were seriously injured, and so he was left to wonder why he was spared. It also brought into focus why he was so disconnected with his past – I only ever met one friend of his that he had before the war.
I also discovered that he was an absolute packrat. Dad had more stuff hidden around our tiny bungalow house than one could ever imagine. Now, every weekend that I go to see Mom, she’s got a new box or bag of something, mostly trash but occasionally treasure, that she’s asking me, “Do you want this thing?”
Recently, an eye condition left my Mom unable to drive, so she wanted to sell her car. It’s a 1994 Mercury Tracer, stripped down as could be (Dad was also a dyed in the cloth tightwad, but that’s another story), and you could have eaten off the engine block. It reminded me of all the times I’d climb under the car with him and ask questions about all the parts and what they do, and why I take the time to answer the same questions I get from my son when he climbs under the car with me. His machines were never much, but he kept them perfect. If a car rusted out or failed on him, it was the car.
In the process of getting it ready for sale, she opened up the trunk and asked me about a big blue bag he had stowed under a blanket. I opened it up, and inside was the most glorious emergency repair kit you could imagine. A full set of wrenches and screwdrivers, jumper cables, flares, candles … a guy’s dream.
“Do you want this thing?” Mom asked. “It looks like it’s never been used. You can have it, I don’t want it to go with the car.” I tried to contain my enthusiasm as I said, “Sure, I’ll take it,” then ran it back to my own ill-equipped car to carry proudly.
It struck me as ironic – a guy who would never let the car maintenance go long enough to ever have an emergency, also carries the ultimate emergency kit. But that was my Dad.
Pardon my trip to the past, but I think it’s a good exercise at this time of year to reflect on the people who’ve most influenced us – how we got to this point in our lives, and what direction we’re headed in the future.
We call cotton an industry and it certainly is, but at its heart it is still a collection of families, passing on knowlege, learning from each other, and trying to build something lasting for future generations. My year of working with our Memphis editorial crew, and talking and meeting a number of you, has reinforced this reality to me, and it’s been a pleasure to work with you all.
I wish you a joyous Christmas and a Happy New Year, and the blessings of family and prosperity in 2008.
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