He fit in everywhere....
Even when he had "worn out his welcome", he would simply disappear for a while.....when he returned, you had no choice but to simply be happy he came back.
My big "brother" Bo put it best....He told me this one time: Sometimes, I would be going somewhere I knew he was gonna be...and when things weren't good I would be so mad...I would resolve on the way there to not speak to him or even give him a piece of my mind for the ways he may have hurt you or your mom....but then, I would get there.....and he would smile and laugh and I would find myself in a high-five or hug within minutes.... He just had a way of making you remember who he was deep down.
My dad grew up the middle of 2 girls. His dad worked hard, and after a car accident that medically paralyzed my grandfather, the dynamics became different between them. My grandfather taught himself to walk again, but my father never seemed to get over the realization of how frail life was...and now, how seemingly frail his dad was.
He was handsome...thick curly hair, slender build, wickedly sparkling dark eyes. It was almost as if he had perfected some dashing character that would allow him to cause mischief and walk away untouched. This kept him from reaping many of the consequences of boyhood. He was able to maneuver and manipulate his way through almost any circumstance. He was smooth...and like I said: when he wasn't smooth anymore, he would just pick up and move circles for a while...let you forget.....then, when he popped back in, you would be happy to see him....smooth.
Ace Miller, the owner of Golden Gloves Boxing in Knoxville, was a friend of my dad's for years. He had promised Ace one night that he would take photos of the fights if Ace bought this new camera equipment. They discussed the details, and about 3 hours into the fight my dad shows up....late and drunk. Ace could barely tell the rest of the story for laughing. In order to make things right, my dad had found an old derby hat and stuck a card in it which read "press pass." Ace said that he just couldn't be mad at a guy who made sure he came late, drunk AND in costume.........
It wasn't always funny that he came drunk, late and in costume...Don't get me wrong. I do not want to make light of the very disease that took my dad from me- took the husband from my mom. The character qualities within who my dad was remained the same. Alcohol kept him from being his best, kept him from providing for his family, allowed him to forget his priorities and loosed a tongue from hell. It caused more hurt in his lifetime than anyone should experience. However, who he was- his personality did not change.
I can read excerpts from his yearbook and know that he was the same way in 10th grade. Smooth, sweet, funny, articulate, smart....and a dreamer.
His yearbook drastically changed from Junior to Senior year. He went from being involved in many things to being involved in nothing. The girls stopped saying things like "stay sweet" and started saying things about past times and "remember when" and the messages from guys got cruder, uglier and full of the loss of hope. It was easy to see his circle had changed, his goals had changed.....It was easy to see the invasion of alcohol and depression.....depression and anger....anger and alcohol....the cycle...who knows why it started or which one caused which....and it doesn't matter now.
He loved sports. He would tell highly animated and dramatic stories about scoring the winning touchdown in the championship game. He most always left out the detail that that "game" was an 8th grade club team. He told me at least 5 different stories of how he lost his front two teeth..and I overheard at least 3 other versions as well. He recalled his youth with vivid storyline and characters came to life- Spider, Monkey, Duck, Otis..... He had friends that knew everything about him...all of it, the good and the bad. When I get a chance to spend time with them it makes me feel close to him...because they have all yelled at him too...they have all held him in a hug, loaned him money, cussed him out and drove him home...
They all know his story....his stories......
He was an artist....but a perfectionist. A hard combination for creativity. He was hard on himself. The story I remember is of him erasing holes in his kindergarten writing paper trying to get it just right. I watched him work on paintings, paint over them, start again, working on them for months.......
He was rarely satisfied with his creative work. He wrote short stories, poetry and songs. He was good. He was never validated in that....except maybe by a few teachers, family members and me.
He always wanted fame, recognition, validation, affirmation.
He loved to give gifts- and they were followed with months of "did you like it?"......sometimes the little boy inside was all too visible to the outside world.
An easel under the Christmas tree with a note from Santa on it- a new bike wheeled in from the next room...the gifts were never what I had asked for- they were always beyond my understanding, what he knew I would not expect- and it was all in the presentation...the surprise, the event. So, naturally, when he was absent from the event, the hole was deep....the absence was tangible and thick.
He was a romantic, a dreamer- found ways to romanticize anything- a song, a starry sky, an 8th grade football story, the loss of a dog, a letter from prison- they call carried with them an air of fictionalized drama...of personal quest and adventure. Some people call this lying;)
He used to bring Jaden 2 Quarters, 2 Dimes, 2 Nickels, and 2 Pennies everytime he saw her....He wanted to be remembered...for them to have "a thing".....History, stories, a past, a memory...it was all very important to him. He had "a thing" with everyone...each of you that knew him could describe something you "always did" or he "always said to you"...He wanted to make sure he mattered to you..that he had left an imprint. I think it worked.As his only little girl, his only child I will say this: I think he was the most wonderful and beautiful man on the planet. Not a day goes by that I do not think of him, wish for time, regret decisions, remember, laugh, and ache for him.
