Bird Droppings May 26, 2025
My two dads are always on my mind and in my heart
I was standing outside on this moonless night, gazing at the clouds sliding quietly in the night. A chorus of tree frogs and crickets kept me company in the dark. It’s coming up to summer, and the ambient temperature is high enough for plenty of chirping this morning. I recall my mother mentioning that she saw my father when she woke up during the night. She asked me about my father, does he come to you? I calmly said yes.
Reflecting on it, the summer of 2007 holds many moments of sadness, yet amidst the sadness, there are also many moments of joy. It was in May that I received a call from the front office and was told to call my wife. I knew immediately that something was wrong, as she never calls the school for me unless it’s an emergency. My father-in-law had drowned while fishing at his favorite lake in middle Georgia. One evening in June, I was driving to hear my son present his rendition of “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” at a talent show after spending a few moments with my mother and father. Early the next morning, my mother called to tell me my father had passed in the night. Both of these fathers were veterans. My wife’s father served in the Air Force for twenty-five years, retired, and then returned to civil service. It appears he was a skilled mechanic on C-130s. My father left college to enlist and served during World War II in the South Pacific on a Navy LSM, delivering Marines and equipment to beachheads throughout the area. I wrote on both days a dropping of sorts and would like to share them again today as a memorial to my two fathers.
May 3, 2007
I remember his hands.
It has been nearly thirty years since I first saw his hands. I recall the day as those large, rough hands reached for mine to shake, his daughter introducing me to him. Those Big, ugly hands were creased and creviced from nearly fifty years of working on C-130 airplanes and nearly fifty years of work etched into those hands with the black of oil and grease clinging to his fingernails so hard to clean off after tearing down and overhauling engines so pilots could fly safely. Big, ugly hands that I remember so clearly became beautiful as they reached to hold his first grandson nearly thirty years ago.
For nearly thirty years, I watched those hands fold in prayer at meals and in church services. I watched as he placed his big hand on his daughter’s shoulder as we were wed. I watched him many times holding his big hands down for a grandchild to cling to, steadying them as they learned to walk. I remember his hands.
I remember hands that looked so clumsy from being worn and frayed, skillfully cutting fine curves on a jigsaw as he made model cars and planes for his grandchildren. I remember wondering how those big hands could carve such a small propeller for such a tiny plane that would now sit on my son’s shelf, nearly twenty years later. I would laugh as his hands cut out flowers and reindeer in mass for friends and family, and as his big hands painted away in bright colors, each one of those potential gifts, I remember those hands.
I remember hands that could cook fish so good you had to eat a ton. I remember hands that could fix a car or repair a bike. I remember hands reaching for the food bowls at Thanksgiving dinner, filling his plate, and then reaching for another roll. I remember those hands holding a birdhouse up as he nailed it to a post and filled his bird feeders in the backyard. I remember watching those big hands put another log on the fire and poke at the coals. I remember those hands.
I remember the day those hands last held a cigarette so many years ago. I remember those big hands putting up pictures of grandchildren in the living room. I remember those hands filling his thermos and getting an extra jacket to head for the races in Cordele, Georgia, and taking earmuffs for his grandson. I remember those hands holding an ear of corn as we listened to country music down at Mossy Creek so many times. I remember those hands.
I often joked about how funny it would be to see those big hands holding such a small fishing pole and reel. I remember those hands and the passion for fishing and being on the lake. I remember my son catching his first fish and being hugged by those big hands. I remember those hands videotaping every single event in his grandkids’ lives. I remember watching it as the boat was loaded and the truck hooked up. I remember those hands.
If I have all these memories, he will be here or there, and I can sit and tell my children about those big hands. I remember those hands. It is hard to ponder that all I now have are those memories, and I will not see those big hands reaching, hugging, holding, fishing, praying, and shaking my hand again. It was a long drive home as I thought about what to write and say, remembering this man. I do know I remember his hands. Please keep all in harm’s way on your mind and in your hearts.
June 28, 2007
A new journey
I had dropped off some medicine at my parents’ home yesterday afternoon and spoke with my mother for a few minutes. Two of my nieces were there, with my dad standing by his bed as I entered. He lay still, not moving. My mother said he has been like this for some time now. It was hard leaving and going to my next stop of the day. A feeling of apprehension seemed to follow me. But there were other stops, other pieces to that day’s journey.
I drove down to Oxford, Georgia, last evening to watch the talent show of my youngest son’s choir camp. My wife was tired from a hard day at work and had to make several calls, so she wanted to catch up on a show she had missed previously. I stopped and picked up a water bottle for the journey; I only drank Evian. Fortunately, that is about my only idiosyncrasies.
As I headed out of the county just before dusk, a tall dead tree stood to my left as I drove by. Stark and free from bark, nearly white in the waning hour. Atop the tree, in the highest point, sat two red-tailed hawks. Watching me as I drove by, I thought, ‘Having my camera, what a picture! This could be one for National Geographic.’ But as instantly as the image presented itself, it was gone in the blink of an eye, as the car drove along, and I had to reach my destination.
I arrived just before they started and have always enjoyed the Emory at Oxford campus of Emory University. The grounds date back to the early 1800s, and a variety of exotic trees and shrubs flourish. I listened to a talented group of young people, including my son, as he performed his rendition of a duet by Guns N’ Roses and Bob Dylan, singing the famous tune “Knocking on Heaven’s Door”. The song stuck with me as I drove away after the program. Bob Dylan wrote the song many years ago, which was featured in the 1973 movie Billy the Kid and Pat Garrett.
Mama, take this badge from me.
I can’t use it anymore.
It’s getting too dark to see
Feels like I’m knockin’ on heaven’s door
Knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door
Knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door
Knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door
Knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door
I came home and sat talking and watching TV with my oldest son. They tend to stay up longer than I do most nights. I told him how his brother played his duet again. It’s somewhat hard to explain, as he comes across as a mix of Axel Rose of Guns N’ Roses fame and Bob Dylan at the same time. But the words lingered with me as I continued my journey that night, falling asleep. Around two in the morning, I had a one-dog night, and funny it was because he was hungry. There is nothing like a dog chewing dry dog food at two in the morning.
I got up with my wife, fully intending to start working on the graduate school tasks I needed to complete, and walked around, turning out the lights, until I found my chair in the dark. I thought my oldest son had work this morning, so I would wake up when he walked by. I had several vivid dreams over the next two hours, waking up as my son came by. I emailed a friend who knew my sons and had been a member of the Choir Camp for many years till graduating from high school and heading to college. I, for some reason, went and picked up my phone. All I heard was “he is gone”.
I thought I responded and talked for a few minutes, and called my oldest and wife to let them know my dad had passed away. I walked into my middle son’s room and told him. This was around eight o’clock. I walked out to my quiet spot among some young pecan trees and thought for a few minutes. I enjoy the smell of sage and sweet grass as the wisps of smoke rise in the morning air. Life is a circle, I thought, looking at some stones I had previously placed on the ground.
I told my son I was heading to town to pick up the mail and drove off. Around ten thirty, my mother called and asked if I got the message she left. I said no, I talked to you earlier, you said Dad had passed away. She informed me she did not talk to me. I told her I would be over shortly and was fine.
It is strange how we respond when considering all events and happenings, and seeing that, truly, life is a simple circle. No beginning and no end as we journey. We get to participate along the way, interconnect, and meet people. We gain understanding and wisdom as we travel this circle, and for some, most, I would say, the transitional points are painful; yet for others, they are wondrous moments and new journeys. My father had told me numerous times he had done what he needed to do here and was ready. He passed away in his sleep, content that he had been a great father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. Many knew him over the years through Scouting, the Church, the Red Cross, Safety and Loss Control, and his dear friends. Each has a story to tell about a piece of my father’s puzzle.
“Knocking on heaven’s door” keeps coming back as I recall my sons singing last night and so many years ago as another son left me a note after sitting all night with a teenager who had been in a car wreck “Life is about the journey not the destination”, a line from Steven Tyler of Aerosmith. I’ve been thinking about the past few weeks, with my father-in-law passing away, a student passing away just last week, and now my dad passing away today. I mentioned to my wife last evening that wisdom comes with experience and time. There is a new journey, a new day. I wish my father well on his journey. Peace, my father and friend.
My family and friends, I do not say this lightly,
Mitakuye Oyasin
(We are all related)
docbird
The daily meanderings of a teacher 