When I woke up this morning, I had not thought about the date. Somehow, when one is retired, the date is not very important. However, on the television the announcer said that it was January 23. My mind immediately went back to January 23, 1964. I awoke that morning and got ready to go to school when my telephone rang. It was my pastor from my church in Florida, calling to tell me that my daddy had died of a heart attack during the night. Heartbroken, I boarded a plane and traveled to Florida to be with my mother and grieve with her over our loss.
My daddy was only 55. As a twenty-two year old, fifty-five seemed "old." When I arrived at that age, I realized it wasn't old at all. My daddy had had a heart attack ten years prior to that when I was in the eighth grade, but he had recovered and had continued to work hard.
My daddy was born in Adel, Georgia and then lived in Trilby, Florida. He met my mother in Lacoochee. They married in 1933. He worked at the Cummer lumber mill in Lacoochee, and then in 1945 when World War II was over, we moved to Bradenton where I grew up.
I was daddy's girl, and I loved him so much. He thought I could do not wrong, nor I him. Years later, I found myself missing him in a new way. I would go into a restaurant or any place and see adult children with their parents enjoying their time together, and I realized that I was missing not having known my daddy in that relationship. He will always be "my daddy." I miss him today.
The photo below is the last picture I have of him, along with my mother at my university graduation.
