A dear friend posted on my Facebook page, "Please pray for my daddy." I felt the tears begin to well up in my eyes having only recently lost my own in a home fire this year. My heart poured out to her as I responded that she and her father were in my prayers. I guess this article should be written after my own grieving process is done. But perhaps, a view from within the process is needed.
My father was iconic. He was Ernest Hemingway and Don Vito Corleone. He was Ghandi and Jesse James. In my eyes everyone loved him. His life was so filled with such adventure that one could hardly believe it. If there were not the police records and newspaper headlines to prove it, one probably wouldn’t. He wasn't a perfect man, and no one struggling to live back in our parents' days was. We have our economic woes today and times are tough. But my father's day consisted of a series of decisions that either meant poverty or death. Living well was not an option, and the decisions were not always legal. "When you need a good bootlegger, Sheriff, you can always look me up. But until then you don't put food in my kids' mouths."
My father was not always on par with the law of the day. In fact, I guess the only time he could be considered law abiding was when the law wasn't aware of his activities. He, my mom, my aunt and many other families did what was necessary to survive in a south that did not tolerate disorder and delivered strict penance for illegal transportation of booze across a dry county line. And, in those days, often those wearing badges were the most dangerous and prejudiced. I remember my father seeing a black man walking the road side late one evening. He pulled over to let the man in. I was still young then and weary of strangers. But I remembered my father's chilling warning, "If we don't get him off this road, someone will ride by and kill him."
As we laid my father into the ground, hundreds were in attendance. My eldest brother was still in the hospital recovering from his burns and my youngest brother beside us. We each have to deal with the loss in our own ways. I have often admitted to my naughtiness in previous articles, and I have had my own scrapes with the law in my youth. But I am a good person because my father made me so. I'm not wealthy and don't ever expect I ever will be. My only obligation is to those I know as family and no one else. I respect the character and property of others and expect the same of them. My father lives in me and within the boys he raised. Although I will never feel that stern gaze upon me again, I will continue to respect his word until the day I die.
Previously Posted on FullofKnowlege.com
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