It Was Twenty Years Ago Today...

...that one of the world's kindest people passed away. He was my father. I want to share a little bit of him with you, so that you might know him, at least vicariously, through my words.

My dad was born here in Knoxville in 1922. He was the second of what would later be three sons. I don't know a great deal about his childhood, but I know it wasn't particularly easy, or always pleasant. When he was eight, their mother died three days after giving birth to the third son. Their father remarried, at least a couple of times, but the boys ended up being shuffled around between various family members. One of Granddaddy's wives was literally insane; she would chase the boys around the house with a butcher knife.

When my dad was, I believe, 16, he met my mother. It was at a church revival and he was there with another girl. Turns out, he and this other girl came back to my mom's parents' house afterwards. My mom has told me that when she saw him, the very first time she saw him, she knew he was the one she was going to marry.

The following June, her "prediction" came true.

He was 17; she was 14.

My dad was in the service for a total of 30 years, first in the Army, then the Air Force. He served his position well; he was a supply sergeant, based in many different bases across Europe. He not only provided everything the base would need, from shoes to airplane parts, he also aided in saving and evacuating civilians during crisis times. He received commendations, awards, and to top it off, the highest rank a non-commissioned officer can attain. The rank of Chief Master Sergeant, E9, was created during the 1960s, and my father was the second man ever to receive that rank. (I've since found out that the Air Force only awards this rank every two years, and in its history, there have been only fifteen men who have received this honor.)

My father was also one of the most generous, selfless people I've ever known. When my family was overseas--this was during the '40s and '50s, before I was born--my dad would befriend some of the younger men in his unit, and if they were single, would often bring them home for dinner so they wouldn't be alone all the time. He was always inviting them for the holidays, too, and went out of his way to make them feel like part of the family. He was a coach for one of the basketball teams; he was a sponsor for the Rainbow Girls (offshoot of the Masons and Eastern Star civic clubs); he was a Mason, and held a high-ranking position in their organization for many years.

Even after he retired from the military, he kept that sense of family and welcome. He made easy friends, seemed to know everyone in Knoxville--including Congressman John Duncan!--and was well-liked by all his customers at the Oldsmobile dealership where he worked.

In their 48 years of marriage, I never once heard my parents argue. That was due largely to my father, who grew up surrounded by conflict. He told my mother early on that he never wanted to argue with her because he'd had enough of it to last a lifetime. So, if they disagreed, he would invariably leave the room, go downstairs, go outside, whatever. But I never heard him utter an unkind word to my mother.

And I never heard him curse, either, although I'm sure he did when I wasn't around. :)

My dad developed leukemia when he was 65. It was an extremely aggressive type, a fast mover, one that usually strikes young children. At first he spent a week in the hospital for chemo treatments. I have never seen anything take such a toll on anyone as I did my daddy with that chemo. It aged him at least 10 years in that week. And chemo is not fun to go through; it makes you weak, nauseous, strips you of your hair, your weight, your dignity, your spirit. But he managed to make it past all those drugs, and came home at the end of that week. Two months later, he had to check back in for more chemo and, this time, transfusions. When he came home this time, he was even more depleted than before. This time, too, he was depressed. And, I believe, scared.

He had his last Christmas that year.

In February of '88, Daddy entered the hospital again, for phlebitis (swelling) of the knee.

(As I write this sentence, it's 2.53 am. The exact moment my father passed away, twenty years ago. I can barely see the monitor for my tears.)

He was due to come home the very day he died. I don't think I can go into the details of what happened that night; suffice to say, he suffered a hemorrhage in his brain that essentially took him away. He was still alive for about 6 hours after that, but the soul that was my father was gone. In the span of five months, he became ill, he suffered, and he died. Five months? It felt more like five days. Or five minutes.

One of the greatest ironies of that night? My dad always used to say, "It's Friday!" because that was his optimistic way of dealing with a terrible work week...

February 12, 1988 was a Friday.

Now all his days are Fridays.

Hey, Daddy--your little Pooh misses you, so very very much.

All my love, always.

Jenny