Welcome one and all. It is
Tuesday, October 8, 2019, and I will go on record as saying I do appreciate the wee bit of cooler air circulating around. What say you? The wife went on something called a Church-sponsored Ladies Retreat last Friday and Saturday. I was supposed to spend Friday afternoon getting caught up on the paperwork scattered here and there in my office. I did do a lot of that, but, I put on some old Christmas tunes and I spotted a huge shipping envelope standing behind my office door. It contained stuff relating to the death and funeral of my dad, Cecil Sr., who passed away on January 2, 1954. I had not looked at any of that stuff in a long time, therefore, I spent a couple of hours reading through its contents. After disconnecting from the Army, dad went to work as a warehouse worker at Camp Polk, Louisiana. This was in the mid-1940s. He received at least a half dozen commendations for his work while there including a letter from his supervisor recognizing his dependability. Interestingly enough, there were many letters written to mom and us kids after his passing. One of the sweetest was from a lady we, the wife and kids, would later attend Church with in Houston in the early 1970s. We were very close to her and her family, and I knew her father-in-law helped conduct my dad's funeral, but, I don't think I knew she actually knew my dad. Sadly, she fell out with me and us because I was a Church bus captain and I brought the first little black girl to our services. She was waiting on the curb along with a bunch of other kids. It never even crossed my mind to not bring her to Church. This dear lady was so upset she refused to teach her class because the little girl was there. They left the services. Yet, at the end of the sermon, that little black girl came forward and gave her heart to Jesus. Based on the letters I read from the envelope, we must have been a pitiful lot, but, I am thankful people cared enough to express their heartfelt sympathy. I have dad's last unopened pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes, the little knife he carried in his pocket, and the Florida souvenir letter opener he used to open mail. None of these artifacts help fill in the blanks for a bewildered seven-year-old whose entire world fell apart after this unexpected loss. I guess that little guy still hangs around from time to time. (Mr. Bentley didn't really know what to think of that little guy who had tears in his eyes.) However, it was good to read such nice things written about dad's devotion to our mom and his love for all things family. The Ladies Retreat returnee will read this and say she can't leave that man home alone, not even for a little while. Maybe. Maybe not.
I have never been able to tie my dad's specific recorded social security number to him in terms of archival information available. However, I have tracked down the block of numbers and where they were issued. The state would have been Georgia. (He was a twin, born in Phoenix City, Alabama, but lived in Columbus, Georgia, before entering the U.S. Army in WWII. To enlist he falsified his birth date as 1921 when in fact he was born in 1923, the same year his twin was born, duh! His mom signed for him.) They started issuing this block back in 1936 and ended the block in 1950. A person holding a card from this block would, on average, be between 81-99 today. Dad would be 96 this year if he were still alive. (He was actually 4 months short of his 31st birthday when he left this life for the next.) The average death year for this group is 1987. The oldest living individual from this pool is listed as being 104 years old. I know this social security information doesn't add anything to the story, but, I did find it to be interesting. We never were able to acquire his military records since a vast number of the records of those who served in WWII were lost due to a catastrophic fire at the St. Louis records center. Lots of dead ends. And, lest you think this occupies a lot of my time, I haven't visited this subject in a long while now. It more or less came up again after I read all those letters, cards, including cards dad wrote to mom on her birthday and anniversary and the ones he gave her on Mother's Day where he signed all of our names, Jimmy Don, Julia, JoAnn, Junior, Donald, and Kayla Jean. Junior would be none other than your faithful scribe.
Okay. I think I may have overstayed my trip back to the land that has very few answers. I do know this. Today is what we have before us, and, for me, I am still a work in progress. Fortunately, God is diligent in continuing to shape and mold me as He is the Master Potter. Lots of ouches along the way as He chisels away the things that hinder the work He has for me. I did get my ultrasound done last Friday. It was specifically to examine me for something called the abdominal aorta aneurysm. It came back normal without any recognized issues or problems. Praise the Lord! You do know I am quickly running out of excuses for why I am dragging around like I do at times. They have pretty much eliminated most of the medical potentials. Maybe it will end up being just like Paw Paw Mac used to tell me, "Son, you can't pass a couch or chair without just turning loose." He would add, "And, you don't even know how to sit down, you just back up and turn loose." Maybe there's something in his words I can blame my issues on. Not hardly. Oh yeah. The doctor. He said perhaps maybe when I get weary it might be a good idea to take a break. All that schooling and experience and that's the best he can come up with? I thought surely they had a pill I could take. You do know I am joking. I am thankful that for the condition I am in I'm doing pretty well.
Amen. ....More later.
No comments:
Post a Comment