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My dad was born in St. Elmo, KY on January 8, 1940. He was born into a family of sharecroppers, who never owned their own home, but worked the land of others "in-trade" for a place to live and for a portion of the crops they raised. My mother recently shared a story with me of how his family once worked a farm for another man and were responsible for milking 22 cows each morning and each evening. Maybe that, and all the years of raising tobacco and the intense physical labor involved with it explains how dad developed huge "man-hands." Not only were they huge, but powerful. As a young man in my twenties, I would often test his strength, but each time I was left in awe of how strong his hands and wrists were, not to mention how adept he was at submitting me with wrist locks and the like. I saw him take a larger "young buck" down to the ground one day that dared test him and knew afterwards that even in his older age, he wasn't to be messed with and definitely didn't take to someone disrespecting him by thinking otherwise.
Considering that my father lived to be 64 years old is pretty remarkable. From my earliest memories, it was apparent that dad had survived some unique circumstances. He had scars going up both sides of his chest and coming down both sides of his back. As a child, I couldn't grasp or understand that those scars were the result of some type of lung disease, Bronchiectasis, that had caused him to undergo two surgeries when he was 18 and 19 that removed portions of his lower lungs. In 1958-59, this was a miracle. Throughout his life, he endured many bouts of pneumonia, which were indicative of the bronchial issues which were probably congenial.
To say that dad and I disagreed on many things is an understatement, but I have nothing but love and respect for him. He was a strict disciplinarian and I am forever in his debt for his heavy hand. Many children aren't fortunate enough to have a dad that sticks around, lays ground rules down and enforces them; I can proudly say I am not one of them. Two things that we agreed on fully were college basketball and fishing. Dad loved UK (my 2nd favorite team), and we would drop everything and go fishing on a moments notice. Fishing accidents were one other thing we had in common. Before I was born, my dad was accidently hooked in the back of his head by my cousin, Kenny. Dad had my uncle take it out with a pair of plyers and kept fishing. Many years later, dad hooked me with two hooks on an errant cast directly behind my left ear. I told him to get the plyers and dig it out, but it was too much for me to ask of him. He gave it a couple of tries (turned pale) and then drove me to the ER instead. Our love of fishing united us where other areas drove us apart. I don't think we ever had a bad day fishing (except when he hooked me). In the end, they were trash talking marathons of who would catch the most and/or biggest fish.
I also credit him with planting a seed for love of photography. Dad collected old cameras and when I joined the Air Force and was planning to move away, he gave me my first SLR camera, a Mamiya Sekor film camera, which I used for many years before digital photography came about.
Looking back, I miss so many things about him, and so many times spent together. He would toss the baseball with me and complain about his aching shoulder the whole time. He would pass the ball to me for spot up three point shots because he didn't have the breath to run around and play with me. And above all, he set an example that hard work and persistence are all part of life, so suck it up and "git-r-done."
On the night that he passed away, I stood crying and alone next to his bed while breaking the news to him that his vital signs were dropping and he wouldn't live long. Even in his weakened condition, he reached across, patted my hand, and offered me comfort while acknowledging with a nod that he was ready to go. I still miss you and love you, Dad