My Personal Folk Hero

 

 

Dad loved history—-and he loved sharing his passion with others.
You couldn’t listen to him and not want to know more about the past.
He took us to Vicksburg, Gettysburg, Williamsburg, Jamestown, and Fort Ticonderoga.
Civil War battles and early American life came alive in his eyes,
as Kelly and I could imagine Grant and Lee signing the papers as we stood at Appomattox.  

In addition to historical visits,
Dad shared tales of Wild Bill Hickok and Annie Oakley,
And female heroines like Amelia Earhart and Harriet Tubman.
We even had coonskin caps like Davy Crockett.

He read us folk tales about Johnny Appleseed, Pecos Bill in the tornado, and Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox.
We were astonished at the deeds of a man who planted apple trees wherever he went,
And the thought of an ox who “grew so big that 42 axe handles plus a plug of tobacco could fit between his eyes.” 

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When your dad dies when you are 24–
And when he is at the height of his professional career
And has taught and served as a principal in the same area his whole life–
And when he had over a thousand at his funeral at age 52—

When all those are true,
It is easy to somehow transform your views of your dad
Into someone larger than life—
As a sort of folk hero–
As someone who did no wrong and had a perfect life.

Now, at age 55, three years older than he ever was,
It is much more obvious that Dad was not a folk hero.  
Dad was a normal man who loved big, did all he could to make his students know they were loved, and did all he could to tell his three females at home that they were amazing.

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In thinking how to describe my dad to my sons who never met him,
I could tell of his folk hero-type achievements—
His Teacher of the Year awards for Polk County two different times,
His transition from history teacher to assistant principal to principal,
His crazy antics to motivate his students on the football field (as he wore his Lake Gibson Braves Indian outfit and ran up and down the sidelines)
To his decision to walk 20 miles from Lake Gibson to Bartow to take their test scores to the district office,
To several nights spent on the roof of the school to celebrate state scores.

I could tell of the ways he, like Johnny Appleseed, changed the landscape of Central Florida by planting “seeds” of hope.
I could tell of the times I had to share Dad even when I was little
With the students who ran up to him, hugging him,
With the students who wanted to share their awards and achievements,
And with students who needed a father figure in their lives.
I could tell of his motivational talks, of his encouragement that his students fly with the eagles.
I could tell of his decision to name the eagle as the mascot at his new high school, George Jenkins,
And of his pure joy of dreaming of the new campus and of the way students would enjoy the courtyard.

I could tell my sons of his never-ending energy,
Almost supernatural like the strength of Paul Bunyan.
He moved constantly from 5 a.m. until 10 p.m., eating a meal a day by grabbing small bits of food on his way from one event to the next.
I could tell of his Barney Fife figure, of the power that lived inside that tiny physical frame.
I could talk of his involvement at church, from Sunday School teacher and superintendent, to board member, to choir member.
I could talk of all the help he provided my mom as we set up for children’s events.
I could talk of his solos and of his role as Psalty, a blue songbook in a children’s musical.


I could do all that . . . .
And obviously, I could tell of his almost unnatural end—
Of the sudden heart attack on the way to the football field of the first football game at George Jenkins.
I could talk of the grief,
Of the suddenness of the loss of this life, this man who seemed larger than life.


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I could do all that. . . .
But to introduce my personal “folk hero” to my sons, I wouldn’t focus on that.

I would focus on these details of his life:

• He treated everyone with the utmost respect, from the repairmen who worked at the school to the custodians who barely spoke English.
• He loved to sing along with music, regardless of whether he knew the words.  The music itself was more important than getting everything right.  He made up words that Kelly and I called “Slippy Pippy” words.
• He loved to watch things grow—his students, the grass, the trees, the plants.  He loved his yard and having it look just right.  We spent so many hours with Dad out in the yard, mowing, raking pine needles (in Florida) and leaves (in North Carolina).
• He didn’t mind sweat and hard work.  Whether it was cutting down a pine tree that needed to come down, or working an extra job doing construction work during the summer, Dad worked hard.  He wore out the soles of his dress shoes each year from walking so much.
• He loved to teach.  He was passionate about public education and his students.  He was rarely angry, but when he was, it was when his students were hurt or when someone (including loved ones) criticized teachers.
• He loved to encourage others.  He wrote small notes each morning that he would deliver to people he wanted to thank.  I have some of those notes he gave to Mom.
• He loved my mom.  Beyond doubt.  They were true partners, taking part equally in each other’s endeavors.  I still have all their love letters to each other.  It might be expected that she kept his, but true to form for him, Dad kept all her love letters, too.
• He loved Kelly and me.  Each night I was in his house, I got a hug and a kiss from him, and each morning, he kissed my forehead while I slept and wished me a good day.   He was so proud of both of us and was at each of our events.  He never missed a day telling us that he loved us.  And always would.
  
• He loved soft-serve ice cream, and his nighttime treat was vanilla (or chocolate) ice cream with salted peanuts on it.  
• He did not watch sports 24/7, but he always knew the scores so he could converse with others.  I can remember being super excited about Joe Montana and the 49ers and the Pittsburgh Steelers.
• When he got up in the mornings, his ankles and toes popped.  We would tease him with “Snap, Crackle, Pop.”
• He loved making French toast on Sunday mornings for us, and we would read the comics.  He also loved washing dishes.  
• He taught me that real men help clean the house, fold laundry, vacuum, and dust.  Real men also cry at The Waltons and at any other small thing that is important.
  
• He loved going down snowy mountains on a sled, making snowmen, and making snow angels.  However, if you ever got on a toboggan with Dad in the snow, you could plan going backward and falling out.
• He sat with one leg draped over the arm of chairs when he was comfortable.  He loved Christmas Vacation and other Chevy Chase humor.  He loved his Christmas train (he purchased it as an childless adult, and when the toy salesman asked about his little boy, Dad admitted it was for himself), tinsel deliberately laid on branches, and the butter cookies that came in a metal tin.
• He loved sitting on the front porch of the Maggie Valley home, drinking coffee and reading a book.  He voraciously read and had the unbelievable ability to remember characters and plots of books he hadn’t read in decades.
• He loved imagining retirement, something he never reached.  He frequently talked, though, of never sitting on the porch and dying.  He wanted to “run into the grave,” words he said the week he died.  He and Mom drew plans of the expansion of their Maggie Valley home.
• He loved walking in the woods, seeing inspiration in nature, and seeing beautiful natural sights.  He enjoyed watching the chipmunks (Kelly called them "chinkminks") scamper. 
  
• He always had a pad of paper and pen with him.  When we shopped, Dad would sit in a chair or stand at a clothing rack, writing down thoughts for future speeches or a list of tasks he needed to do.   He frequently was mistaken as a manager and was asked how to find an item.  The funny part is that Dad would go along with it and would help the customer find what he/she was looking for.
• We never went anywhere without someone knowing my dad.  We could go out of state, and it seemed like we always saw someone who knew him.
• He was so tired he would fall asleep any time he sat down.  He fell asleep at train crossings, waiting for the train to pass.  He fell asleep in the dentist chair while he was undergoing dental work.  But, he wouldn’t slow down.
• He rolled up his pants and would walk in rivers (and would often slip).  He often mowed his front yard in shorts and dress socks, trying to get the grass mowed before it got dark outside.  He wasn’t afraid of looking like a fool—dressing up for his students, rolling down the hill at Biltmore Mansion, riding a kids’ tricycle at church, and crawling around on the floor with toddlers.  
• He felt like he had a mission—a world he wanted to make better.

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My kids may never have met my father.
However, I hope they have seen a reflection of him in me.

He showed me how to love my children.
He showed me how one person’s passion can power a life and can motivate others.
He showed me how to love big—
And how to live with respect for all and with appreciation for the small things of life.

He wasn’t a folk hero.
He was just MY hero.