Three Miles South of Garner

My life was shaped by farm trucks, dairy cows, uncles, aunts, grandparents, a loving, storytelling mother, and … my Daddy.

When told that The Urban News this June was to feature “men,” I tossed my normal political eye aside, because there was only one man worth writing about.

You see, my Daddy hated politics and politicians. Maybe that’s why I was personally so curious about both as I grew up. But that’s not this column’s focus. I’m writing about a man who lived his life at a hands-on level … trying various ways to make survival money until he lucked into a temporary job as a substitute postal carrier (then worked his way up to acting postmaster). This was a career that meant a secure wage supporting his family of four and a chance to exercise his friendly rapport with an entire community.

For example, I recall his personally delivering late-arrival packages on his way home from work on Christmas Eve, or boxes of baby chicks that missed the carrier schedule and might otherwise starve or freeze over the weekend.

His rapport with people meant that anyone from our church back then would tell you what a singer he was—with a bass voice that filled the church. And anyone on my high school girls’ basket-ball team would remember him lovingly as “Papa Holder.”

And it is this man I was writing about in the following excerpt from a letter to a friend just after he died, accompanied by a passage from my personal journal.

***

We buried Daddy with an assortment of totems. Chris (my 19-year-old son), Ray (my second husband) and I planned our own little farewell and had a private moment before the casket was closed the night before the funeral. We gave Daddy his Christmas presents—Christmas having embodied the true delight of his soul.

These included a remote-control dog from Chris, a frog that did back-flips from us, and a supply of peanut brittle (his favorite treat). I also put into his hand a napkin with some coconut pie (his other favorite) brought in for the family by neighbors, and a handful of dirt from his garden.

Sending him away, then—surrounded by such gaiety—gave me as much joy as sorrow, so there was a feeling of having found peace with the whole idea. It helped Chris tremendously, too.

Journal, 1/7/87

The awareness seems to come in waves, doled out by the subconscious in mercifully small doses. It seems to hurt most when I look at his neat outbuildings and the precisely stacked firewood.

Yet we smile a lot, talking of him. So fond of his idiosyncrasies, his jokes, his self.

Mother looks so small, but is rallying faster than I expected and asserting her independence. Her experience seems to come in waves, too. We all went out walking yesterday, and left her here. When we came back, she was in the bedroom standing by the back door looking out and crying softly. So much for her to let go, after 50 years.

Chris is being a champ. He is so thoughtful, so considerate, so open, so attentive. I think this has happened at the best possible time for him—old enough to process it safely, and young enough to absorb nuances which will affect his life.

He was particularly pleased that we gave Daddy the presents—said he never would have thought of it and was so glad we did. He is concerned about making sure there is a footstone. He is rearranging his entire school vacation just to stay here and be with Mother and help her with things. He is participating in everything, alert to it all. And he is collecting items as Mother releases them and moving them into his life—Daddy’s hats and suspenders, among other things. The leather toiletry case. The vest. Some shirts.

He said after the funeral that it made him wish he had brothers and sisters (the strength from the gathering of this extended family is palatable). I talked with him later and told him if I’d had my way, he would have. He was interested—had been unaware of that until now. Then he said he felt he had enough good friends and I agreed—he does have a wonderful support system there.

Mother gave me a jacket of Daddy’s and I took a cap, his thick socks, and some handkerchiefs. I would take anything he’s ever touched, but I’m trying to control that impulse. I want the pick-up truck inordinately, and somehow always thought it would automatically go to me just because of my affection for that part of his identity. But Mother and [brother] Laurie seem unaware of that, which mystifies me. Laurie even mentioned he thought Mother should just keep it for when things need hauling. I have, therefore, made it clear to both of them it is not to be sold without notifying me.

Chris, Laurie and I walked Grandmother’s property yesterday, over to Uncle Poe’s. Later we drove over to Aunt Jessamine’s for a visit. The three of us seemed really magnetized, wanting to be together and share in these rituals. We also all three went through every item in Daddy’s lockbox—Laurie and I to list information, and Chris just to share in what we were doing.

Papa Holder, and Home

My daddy. I guess I fairly adored him … always. From those early days on plumbing trips or riding the mail route; the Sunday afternoon hikes; the trips to look at new cars; the choir cantatas; the Christmases when he’d wake us at 5 a.m. banging on a dish pan. When I first heard he was dead, one of the most vivid pictures that came to me was his standing at the end of the high school gymnasium near the end of basketball practice, smoking his pipe, beaming at “his girls” on the varsity team. “Papa Holder.” That’s what we all called him.

Mother plans to stay here. Part of me is glad. It will be nice to still be able to come home. But I told her if she wants to move into town, I would support that. She is going to see how difficult maintenance is here.

I feel so bad that Daddy had such a hard time before he died. And yet I honor his struggle, and recognize that that was his personal karma. He is free now, and perhaps there are worse things than those two weeks—like the pending changes to the land around him. I am rather attached to the thought that he bugged out before that could happen, and it certainly leaves his life intact.

Ray, incidentally, saw a shooting star over the funeral home the night after the funeral. It seems an obvious sign. We figure Daddy’s singing bass in some heavenly choir…but I really assume his soul is going to hover as close to this piece of property as will be allowed. And that’s okay. I like to think he’s still tending his little corner of land, three miles south of Garner.

***

The moral of this story? A life of quiet, earnest responsibility and good will can rightfully earn and deserve as much or more respect than all the shooting stars of celebrity and notoriety. And that is my political opinion for this month … and all the months to come.

Thank you, Daddy.