Daddy's Chair

Daddy's Chair

GOD, give us men!
A time like this demands
Strong minds, great hearts, true faith and ready hands;
Men whom the lust of office does not kill;
Men whom the spoils of office can not buy;
Men who possess opinions and a will;
Men who have honor; men who will not lie;
Men who can stand before a demagogue
And damn his treacherous flatteries without winking!
Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog
In public duty, and in private thinking;
For while the rabble, with their thumb-worn creeds,
Their large professions and their little deeds,
Mingle in selfish strife, lo! Freedom weeps,
Wrong rules the land and waiting Justice sleeps.

Josiah Gilbert Holland

           

            In youth, we do not realize how much time we will spend later on looking through the rearview mirror...looking back. I so pity the person without memories. We may carry around excess baggage of negativity, things that have made our lives hard, but so much more important: memories of things that were good. Such as our school teachers.

            I used this illustration in so many graduation addresses: A secretary had prepared a list of Sir Winston Churchill's school teachers for one of his biographies. When she showed the list to this great man, at the top of the list of his teachers he wrote the name of his mother. He said, "My mother was my first and greatest teacher." This writer participated in the funeral (he was age 100), first graduate of North Carolina State University. One of the other men there asked me if my mother was still alive. He said, "Be so thankful and good to her, she is the best friend you will ever have."

            I loved all my teachers (a small country school, 12 grade school, 13 in my high school graduating class). Ms. Dickinson was my first grade teacher, taught at the school nearly half a century. The principle told my father (chairmen of the school board) that there had never been one complaint about her. First day, she got her first grade students in line and kept them in line. There had never been a failure in the first grade and every student could read and write when they went to the second grade. I still remember, age 82, the first poem I ever learned, first grade:

"The jersey cow so red and white

I love with all my heart

because she gives us milk and cream

to eat with apple tart"

            Back then, we memorized long poems, mathematics tables, etc. There was no television or video games to drain our mental ability. We read books, minds filled with imagination.

            At the university, competing with fellow students from prep schools, large high schools, the states elitist families, many professors recognized students from hard core poverty-the state's poorest schools. I so remember Dr. Cecil Johnson, dean, crippled, walking with two canes. In my worst days, fighting the good fight of academic survival, he would say, "Thomas, life's greatest enemy is discouragement." I believed him, still believe him. That is the reason, for many years, I have given financial awards (checks of $3,000 each) to hundreds of pastors and teachers in Baptist churches. There is no group in the "vineyard" of servitude, the church, that needs more encouragement than volunteer or under paid Christian workers.

            In other articles I have talked at length, much description, about covering every "pig path" in Eastern North Carolina, selling Bibles door to door during summer vacations (eight years of college and university professional education), saving every dime possible, sparitan living, I usually stayed with a family in a community. Ms. Brothers, Burgaw, N.C, housed some state highway workers, and me. She did not drive, no way of getting around but loved to go to church, especially "revival" meetings. So, I would take her to night services. I have never heard a woman with such a singing voice. Once, she said to me, "I want you to tell your mother that she did a good job."

            I have used that phrase over and over, through the years, with employees. Often I would call their mother's and after telling them who I am, would say, "You did a good job." I believe there are no words in the world more appreciated by a mother about her child. "Aunt Mae" as she was affectionately known by the people in her town and church, born crippled, walked her entire life on her knees. She was a patient of mine, always pleasant, never letting anyone know that her disability was foremost in her life and the first thing that everyone thought about when they saw her.  

            Living to the age of 103, candidate for U.S congress at age 100 (N.C district-3) my friend, Dr. Henry Stenhouse was a retired naval officer-veteran of WWII. His patients called him the "diet doctor" because he was so opposed to prescribing chemicals. He believed that food and supplements would heal most pathology.

            On the day of my father's funeral, my great grandmother's white, real linen, embroidered table cloth on my mother's dining room table. Relatives and associates, for lunch prepared by the women of my parents church, one of my uncles suggested that I, the oldest son, sit at the head of the table in my father's chair. I said, "No, my daddy's chairs will always be 'too special' for me." Such a man, the Holland poem, "God Give Us Men" applied to him. I was always amazed at how educated my father became when I went to college. He could do anything, as one of the preachers at his funeral said, "Sew at the sewing machine, cook anything, his farm a show place for agriculture experts, home photographed by newspapers." He would work on the tractor until 10 o'clock on Friday night, up early on Saturday morning milking the cow, feeding a large "lot" of hogs. Then, to a nearby town where he cut hair (barbershop), standing on his feet all day on Saturday...holidays when so much business. During the winter, crops end, carpenter, building houses. Sunday's, up early, to the church built by his great grandparents, fires in wood stoves over the church in the winter, opening windows, church and Sunday school rooms in the summer. We were always the last to leave the church because he made sure everything was closed up. I never knew him to be out sick, worked every day. At night, taking care of the church and school business. But, this great provider had the satisfaction of seeing each child graduate from college.

            One of my doctor friends' secretary, member of a small rural Baptist church, told my friend that my father spoke at her church, that "The people had never heard such a good message." In the large sitting room of our home, my mother had given strict orders that we were to never sit in daddy's chair. This writer lived at a time when the father was honored in the home, both by mother and children. My grandmother's drove the car, so did their sisters, so did most women in the community. Women did not worry about liberation. They had liberty in Jesus Christ and in knowing that their husbands honored them.

           

            At my father's huge funeral, family, church, since I was the oldest but had been left out of any planning for the services, the funeral director came over and handed me a piece of paper which I put in my pocket. Later, I had my driver read it to me....never shared it with anyone.  The card had come with a floral wreath delivered to the church. It was signed by a prominent N.C member of the legislature-senator. The card said, "In memory of the only man who ever asked me about the welfare of my soul." It is a fortunate man-boy so blessed, to feel that he can never walk in his father's shoes or even sit in his daddy's chair.