Remembering my dad

I had been 19 for less than a month when my father died of a sudden heart attack in 1964. He and my mother were on their way back from visiting my grandmother in New Milford, Ct. They spent the night in Roanoke, Va. He rode the rest of the way home in a Belk Funeral Home hearse.

I was reminded of his sudden departure today when I rode through the remains of the down-town area. He died on Sept. 10, 1964. The night before I had gone to a movie in downtown Florence. The movie was one of Alfred Hitchcock’s more famous, “The Birds.”

I can remember my grandmother waking me up around 8 the next morning. I loved my Grandmother Dawkins with all my heart, but she was never one to beat around the bush with good or bad news.

She banged on the door to my upstairs bedroom and then opened it. Her exact words were, “Wake up, your daddy’s dead.” Then she waddled back down the steps to the kitchen.

I was dumfounded and immediately tried to call my mother. Long distance wasn’t as easy in those days, plus there were still some kinks in Darlington’s five-year-old dial service.

It was two or three hours before I could reach her. She was a registered nurse so she did all she could to revive him. The heart attack took him straight to the great beyond.

My dad was a graduate of Phillips Academy in Andover, Mass., and Yale University. He was an inveterate reader with vast knowledge of baseball and history - especially the Civil War. He was from St. Louis, but his father was a native of Brookline, Mass. That’s why there are some Yankee bones that rattle around in my closet from time to time.

My father had a penchant for being able to write. He wrote a story about the St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church’s hapless softball team one time. It’s a classic. I have a copy of it that I treasure.

He also started writing a book about his life. He never took a drink until he was in college. But that drink was his downfall. He became an alcoholic, but he never lost his sense of humor. He backed into somebody one time in St. Louis during the early 1930s as he was leaving a bar. When the police arrived, they asked him where he lived. The Great Depression was on and he told them he lived in Hooverville down by the river. They didn’t believe him.

My father was one of those who “had a place for everything and everything in its place.” I drove him crazy because I am just the opposite. If Clutter were available for marriage, I would propose this second. I can junk up things in a heartbeat.

But despite his shortcomings, neatness and utter attention to detail, I think he would agree that his son is in the right profession. I can still see him shaking his head when he read things I wrote in high school.

“Don’t they teach spelling anymore in school?” he would say checking off my misspellings. “And your handwriting is terrible. It looks like a Chinese laundry ticket.”

My spelling has improved dramatically because of the profession I’m in. And my handwriting is the best ever because I write just about everything on a computer. Just don’t try to read my notes when I forget to take my tape recorder along.

I think he would be proud of me now. He was proud of me then. I’m proud to be his son, even if I didn’t get the Dana looks and brains. Happy Father’s Day Dad.

Log In | Register as a new member