With the cold darkness of winter falling, I am haunted by ghosts. The clouds are grey and with little light in sight, the memories of those that have influenced my path wander in the fog of the morning on my Tennessee hills. They rest in the shadowed reflection of a mind drifting in and out of consciousness, not wanting to wake. Dreams of my fathers, men of character, men that did all they could to stay the course, could I ever measure up?
The toss and turn of restlessness in my pillowed slumber, I remember their words, mostly unspoken. Words of intentional actions seamlessly done before my eyes over decades, silent men of deeds. Deeds of heroes, who never spoke a word about their medals that accumulated before my eyes.
Valor on the fields and seas of battle, real heroism, selfless and tireless. How many did they save, as they never thought of themselves, but rushed to the need? Yet, they were not just heroes in arms.
When the guns and missiles were silent, and they returned to their homes and families, their self-sacrifice did not subside. They built careers, raised children and loved their wives, as much as their wives would let them. Military life always takes a toll on marriages, sometimes unrepairable, and it takes a toll on the men that have borne the battle.
I have had the pleasure of having two heroic fathers. One whose life I was graciously born into, and the other I was blessed to marry into, and both have shaped who I am today. My fathers were and are men that you should want to have in your life, men accustomed to hardship and taught me toughness. Perhaps, they were too hard at times. In turn, I learned compassion from them. Don’t think for a moment that I am reproaching them for their stoicism, for they were battle-tested men, and I have lived a life of ease comparably.
I watched the first father die from a job-site head injury; it abruptly ended a future I thought he would have with his grandchildren. Never would I ask for anyone to face the decisions my siblings and I had to make. And on this day, in a week where Southerners give honor to our most hallowed heroes, Lee and Jackson, I sit beside the bed of the second. As his time grows short, after a life lived as well as his own past could afford him, I am saddened and do not want to leave his side.
We will all be here one day, hopefully we will not outlive our children. My father-in-law sleeps, in and out of his slumber, waking for moments, and speaking of his long past. It is my honor to share this time with him, even though he knows I have work that does not afford me to attend him constantly. His passing will be a great loss, as was my father’s. But the history that they both provided will be the stones on which I, and my sons, will continue to build the legacy of our family.
We have heroes that haunt our history in the shadowy mist of a cold winter’s day, snow piled too high for a Southern man’s taste. They are hundreds of years in the foggy past, and they are in the crisp, cold air right before our eyes. We must honor our heroes, like my fathers were for me. I pray I will be considered such a hero to my sons and daughters, and their sons and daughters.
Deo Vindice!
God Save The South!
Service to God and honor to the South.
