Lessons learned from Dad
Including the one about remembering to enjoy life
My father was Harold Davis. Tuesday marked one year since his funeral – a day that will forever be etched into my memory and part of my soul.
This is the last milestone. Since then, each holiday, birthday, anniversary, and celebration has passed without him. We no longer have the memories of him being with us "this time last year." It has gone by in the blink of an eye.
I pay tribute to him and remember him as my role model, my teacher. Mostly I want to remember how much fun it was to be one of his children. He had a great sense of humor, a quick wit and was quite the practical joker.
On one occasion, when I was young, our family was driving onto Military Road in the vicinity of Kentucky Friend Chicken. My brother and I had noticed a couple of structures along the road and asked Dad what they were. He leaned forward, looked through the windshield, and said, "Those are water towers. One is for cold water and one is hot water." My brother and I looked through the back window of the car at the towers, armed with knowledge we were sure not everyone had.
He taught us to be curious, to look at ordinary things and discover the wonder thy hold. Before we were old enough to understand belly buttons, we asked Dad what they were and what they were for. He said, "Be careful and don't stick your finger in it." We looked at our bellies and curiosity kicked in, just as he knew it would. We asked, "Why?" In true Harold matter-of-fact fashion, he said, "If you unscrew your belly button, your feet will fall off." We knew it must be true; Dad said so.
During the last years of his life, days were mostly filled with reaching a comfort level to deal with his ailments. Through it all, he taught me the greatest lesson: dignity. If anyone visited, he made it a point to talk with them, regardless of how he felt. He had a remarkable way of reaching out and connecting to people. Everyone became family to him. With courage, he endured physical and emotional pain, the depths of which only he knew. He kept that struggle to himself, despite our inquiries.
My father's funeral was at Parkview United Methodist Church, his spiritual home. During the eulogy, a former pastor of the church, the Rev. John Alston, recounted a Sunday when, as he stepped to the pulpit to deliver the sermon, his prepared text was missing. Looking around the sanctuary, he saw Bill Glenn and my father grinning from ear to ear. He had been the recipient of their practical joke. We all smiled at this story and remembered the good times, just as my father would have wanted.
After the service, the procession made its way from Parkview to Ebenezer Cemetery in Tull. As we pulled onto Edison Avenue, a train closed the crossing to Arkansas 35. While a train stopping traffic on Edison is not uncommon, it caused our car from Ashby Funeral Home to stop directly in front of the location of my father's childhood home. One by one each family member in the car became quiet as we each realized the significance of the moment and location. No words were said.
At the cemetery, we all gathered around and listened to the Rev. Dee Edwards speak to us and provide words of comfort. As the Rev. Alston approached the casket, he opened his Bible. He told us he would be reading from the scriptures. His eyes lowered to his text and found the words. He lifted his head and spoke the first word of the selection: "Listen."
As his lips formed the next word, the weather siren sounded, freezing his expression. It was noon on a beautiful sunny Wednesday, which meant the noise was the regular test of the weather alert system. Rev. Alston stood, waiting for the siren to end before he began again. But it didn't stop. The siren went on and on.
It didn't take long for someone to giggle and before we knew it, laughter was breaking out in the cemetery. Normally, on such a somber occasion, it might seem inappropriate to laugh so hard and for so long, but those who knew my father well had the same thought: Harold got him again. The preacher looked at us and smiled. He knew this was a "gotcha" moment. From time to time he would look at his watch and smile.
This moment, to me, was my father's way of saying, "Lighten up. I had a great life, I loved and was loved; now let me go and get on with your life. I'll see you later."
After nearly five minutes, the siren ended. Tears of grief mingled with tears of laughter – and we said goodbye, though his spirit will never leave us.
That was a perfect day, immaculately woven and guided by a hand determined to make a point, to ease our grief. What if the service had been five minutes shorter? The procession would not have been stopped by the train, we would not have reflected on Dad's life growing up in his home, and the weather siren would not have sounded at the most unimaginable moment. We would not have had our grand goodbye. Coincidence?
Elisabeth Kuebler-Ross once said, "Learn to get in touch with the silence within yourself and know that everything in this life has a purpose. There are no mistakes, no coincidences; all events are blessings given to us to learn from."
I guess this is the true lesson taught to me by my father. Thank you for all you gave me and the privilege of being your son. I love you and I'll see you later.