Archive for the ‘Parents’ Category

He Was Much the Man

Posted: November 14, 2024 in Life and Memories, My view of the world, Parents
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Recently I started thinking back on some of the many good times I had with my Daddy and I started looking over some notes I had written about different conversations I had with him over the years and the memory of this visit with him came flooding back so I decided to compile the notes of the wonderful conversation we had on this fall day a few years ago.

My Daddy called yesterday (October 7, 2009) and asked that if I were in the area could I come down to the farm and help him with a little problem with the truck. I told him I would be happy to come help and after arriving a short time later he told me about his truck not shifting correctly, and how it didn’t want to go into park. He continued to say about how he had crawled under it and found a shift rod that had slipped out of place and how he had to put it back into the slot in the lever so he could shift it into park. As I listened to him talk I was amazed that at eighty-eight he is still able to get down and crawl under his vehicles.

I crawled under the truck and replaced the rod’s retainer clip from Daddy’s parts stash that would ensure the rod would stay in place and after we fixed it he asked if I could go with him around behind his house to do a couple of things to the tractor, so I hopped into the passenger seat and he drove around to the back. As Daddy and I were sitting in his truck behind the house he suddenly said, “I can feel myself getting older…I’m slower, I ache more, and I don’t feel as good as I used to. Hell, I’m not suppose to I guess for in two and a half months I’ll be eighty-nine.” I just listened and nodded in agreement as he continued. “I have a little something for you if you want it. I’m too old to hold on to all this stuff.” He handed me a bicentennial Eisenhower silver dollar and said, “I don’t how much it’s worth but I want you to have it.” I thanked him as I took it from him while he looked at me and said, “There is something else I want you to have as he held his hand out.” I reached out and Daddy placed a small, recognizable shiny brown leather pouch in my hand. As he continued to talk, I noticed the patina of the leather and the smooth polish on the metal edges of the coin purse that only comes from years of use. As I ran my thumb over the lines in its metal edge, a flood of memories came pouring over me as Daddy continued to talk, memories of Papaw, my paternal grandfather, smiling down at me as he reached into his left front trouser pocket, pulling out the brown leather coin purse as he says, “I have a little something for you here Dick (his nickname for me of unknown origin),” as he reaches in with his right hand to extract a nickel from its recesses to drop into my small palm as he closed the coin purse and placed it back into his pocket. Memories of him reaching into his pocket and counting out change to pay for something at a store, memories of him allowing me hold this wonderful coin purse and to count the change that it held within. Memories of feeling the uneven leather surface when it was almost full of coins. “I don’t know whether you remember my old daddy having this change purse,” Daddy continued, “but this is one I remember him using.” I told him this was the one I also remembered Papaw using, as I thanked him and promised to take care of it, I gratefully slid it into the front left pocket of my trousers, as I remembered Papaw doing, somehow hoping that the act itself might bestow some sort of familial aura around me that might make me worthy of the memories that came with it.

We got out of the truck to grease the tractor, a ritual that I remember sharing with my Daddy multiple times throughout my life. After getting the grease gun out of the shed, we begin the familiar rite at the back of the Massey Ferguson tractor…Daddy holding the body of the grease gun with one hand, as I snugly hold the tip of the hose to the grease fitting to make sure the pressure of the grease going into the joints of the tractor doesn’t pop the hose loose from the fittings as it often tended to do, while he pumped grease out of the gun with the other one. We always greased the joints starting at the back, and then on to the left side as we work our way toward the front where we grease both front axles and then work our way down the right side greasing the pedal joints there. It was a time-honored dance that we performed together from the time I was old enough to snugly hold the hose to the grease fittings. Even as an adult, as I saw my father slowly getting older, I would happily hold the hose to the fitting while he worked the gun knowing if he ever wanted to swap roles he would tell me, but even at eighty-eight years old I was thankful that he was still healthy and strong enough to take the lead with this, as well as most of the farm maintenance. When we finished I offered to put the grease gun up and after I returned the grease gun to the shed and walked back to the tractor, Daddy reached across the gas tank with his cane, asking me to hold it while he parked the tractor. I smiled and complied and as I watched him climb aboard, start and maneuver the tractor into its parking spot, I wondered to myself if I will still be alive at eighty-eight, much less crawling under cars and driving tractors.

After he parked the tractor, I handed him his cane back and as we started walking back to the truck he said, “I’m almost eighty-nine years old and I can’t live forever. When they bury me in the family plot, there is a spot at my Daddy’s feet where they’ll plant me and that is where I want to be, at his feet. He was much the man and I have spent my life trying to be deserving of him.” He paused for a few seconds and then continued;
“There was one time I stole a nickel box of pencil lead and it bothers me to this day. Me and Buddy Cox were at Kuhn’s and…”
“Where was Kuhn’s?” I asked as I interrupted him.
“Kuhn’s store was on Broad St,” he said.
“On the West End?” I asked. “Yes, it was on the West End.” he replied and then continued, “Buddy had this new mechanical pencil where you replaced the lead in it. We went to Kuhn’s and he found a nickel box of pencil leads and we were standing at the counter waiting to pay for it. There were several people in there and we were kids and they just weren’t paying any attention to us or waiting on us. We got tired of waiting and I took the box of lead and gave it to him and said, “Here, I’ll give it to you!” and handed him the leads and then we left. I have felt bad about that ever since, and I don’t think I ever took anything again.”

After visiting for a little bit I left, and as I was driving home I thought of the things he said and I thought of how Daddy stood in awe of Papaw and I smiled to myself because I felt exactly the same way about him. As I continued home, I hoped that some day in the future after my father has been laid to rest at the feet of his father, that he would look down on me with favorably as I attempt to be a son that is proud of.

(My father died peacefully at home in his sleep four years later on November 9, 2013 at the age of ninety-two)

Jim Bussell

…I met the man who had no feet…

Posted: May 22, 2020 in Life and Memories, My view of the world, Parents
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My father used to quote the phrase “I cried because I had no shoes until I met the man who had no feet” to me to help teach me to appreciate what I have, while at the same time desiring to work for more. It worked for I have always tended to never lose sight that there are always those that have less than me and I thank the Lord daily for what He has blessed me with, and continues to do so.

There are so many people today that seem to endlessly complain about everything without stopping to realize how blessed they actually are, and this started me thinking about my parent’s generation. I began thinking about life in the early part of the twentieth century, as opposed to life since I have been circling the sun.

Think about this, if you were born in 1900, for the first 50-55 years of your life, if you lived in rural America, you had minimal, or no healthcare, no electricity or running water, the prospect of finding a job outside of a large city was poor and there was no social security fund for the aged to fall back on…life as we know it, really only became commonplace after 1955. These facts can be a little sobering, if we allow them to sink in, and we need to make sure we appreciate every day we live upon this earth, instead of whining about what we don’t have.

Jim 5-22-20

A Mother’s Love

Posted: November 14, 2018 in Life and Memories, My view of the world, Parents
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Throughout my life, I have read striking novels and seen dramatic movies where a character is placed in an impossible situation and asked the question, “would you die for him?”. About the only people I can think of that would unhesitatingly answer “Yes!” to that question are parents. Of course, I hope none of us will ever be faced with such a horrific and odious decision as long as we exist upon this fair earth. However, several decades ago, my mother came close to forfeiting her life for me as I was entering the world for the first time and even that was just a portion of the love she exhibited toward her children as she ceaselessly dedicated her life to my sisters and I as we grew, and continues to do so to this day.

The earliest memories I have of life are predominately ill-defined images, but the early memories I have of my mother are crisp, clear and precise. The birthing process that allowed me to start the mystical journey we call life was only the precursory step I took with my mother. Whenever I was ill, frightened, in anguish, sad, joyous or proud, my mother was there by my side. She was there to give me succor, relief, a kind word or perhaps, simply silent encouragement. She seemed to always be there to share in my accomplishments as well as my tears. I still recall the words to the first songs I remember hearing. Those songs came from my mother’s lips as she would sing to me as I sat in her lap as she rocked me or at bedtime as she soothingly bathed me with her sweet, melodious voice while stroking my hair as my eyes grew heavy from the sandman’s visit after a busy day at play.

She also read to me as a child, opening up countless vistas of exploration of the world, the the universe and life as she would bless me with her words from children’s books, classic literature, stories from the scriptures and more as she attempted to instill in me the lessons learned from all those fantastic pages. She taught me practical lessons also. For instance she taught me to read, write and to count before I was old enough to go to school. She directed and educated me to be functional as I learned how to cook, sew garden and to fix things around the home. My mother did all this and more while suffering from ill health…for the first ten years of my life, she was in and out of the hospital while battling several anomalies including anemia and severe, lingering complications from a difficult, almost deadly, childbirth…yet, I never heard her moan, complain or cry and at no time did she mention her problems, instead she chose to concentrate on the positive aspects of life. Critical and essential lessons such as kindness, honesty, giving, sharing and personal responsibility were not only taught to me by mouth, but more importantly, she drove home all these lessons daily by her life and actions.

Growing up I considered myself a model child, but the factual reality is I caused my mother an endless assortment of agonies and woes, probably on a daily basis, but she continually opened her heart and poured out her love upon me as if I actually were a model child, instead of the hellion I most likely was. Even though I can’t at the moment recall any specific instances, I’m sure I was the source of a joy or two to my mother growing up, but even if I weren’t, I could never tell by her words or actions toward me.

Today my mother is in her seventies and she has had the pleasure of watching my sisters grow and develop, becoming loving mothers and wives themselves. She has also watched me grow into adulthood with children of my own and I can only hope and strive to be able to teach and instill at least a portion of the lessons the she taught me so well all those many years ago. Though I have not been as successful as an adult on the home front as my sisters, you could never tell, for my mother still demonstrates to me daily that she loves just as much as the day I was born…I love you Momma.

1998 written under the pseudonym, Richard Corey

Addendum…

Both of my parents passed away peacefully in their home in the autumn of 2013, three months apart at the ages of ninety years for my mother while my father enjoyed ninety-two fruitful years. My father had been a successful business man, neighbor and WWII veteran and was well known and respected in the community, while my mother dedicated her life to her children and husband. Really, for her, the only thing that could be considered work outside of her home, was as a Sunday school teacher in their church, a role that she enjoyed for over fifty years, only stepping down and passing the mantle of responsibility for the children’s religious education to others while in the eighth decade of her absolved life, when she reluctantly acknowledged she was becoming too old to continue effectively.

During my parents funerals, I earnestly anticipated many people would come to pay their respects to my father, as he had been very well known in our community, and I was not disappointed, as a generous number of folks came to pay their respect to my father and his memory that he had shared with so many. However, what stunned me and caused me to revisit and re-evaluate my thought process on roles in life, was the enormous turnout for my mother’s visitation and funeral. Hundreds of people from several states came to pay their respects to “Miss Mable”, a person that they remembered as a role model and leader and teacher during the formative years of their young lives…memories that stuck with them for decades following as they grew into adults themselves.

As I had mentioned earlier, my sisters and I were unexpectedly surprised when we saw that there were almost double the amount of condolers and well-wishers that came forward to eulogize my mother, as well as to console and provide empathy to us, than attended my father’s funeral, and as I reflect and look rearward, I fully understand that this in no way, demeans the impact my father had on those he touched in his long life, rather it celebrates the gigantic impact my mother had on the all the children she loving educated and nourished, giving each one of them a small portion of the love she gave to my sisters and I every day until she passed. In retrospect, I feel my parents celebrated life as fully as they could and the most paramount and significant legacy they have left everyone was the life lessons they taught us just simply by the way they lived.

Jim Bussell

2018