Goodbye, Dad

My dad died on Thursday, December 19, 2013, and his funeral was Saturday, December 21.

Every day, more than 6700 people die in the United States. That's about 1500 more people than the entire population of Childersburg, Alabama, dying every day. When you think about it that way, the ending of one life isn't that significant or special - it's just one of 6700.

When it comes to my dad, though, it IS special - because his life was special.

Albert Puckett was born in 1922. He fought in World War II. He was a hard worker - he retired from Kimberly Clarke after 36 years of service, almost all of that shift work. He was a loyal friend and a good neighbor.

He was also an outstanding father for 57 years of his life, and it's this aspect of him I'd like to share with you.
Dad never sat me down and said "This is what you have to do to be a man." But he showed me in countless ways. I want to tell you about four important things he taught me.

First, Dad showed me a man should willingly make sacrifices for those he loves. When I was seven or eight years old, one of my favorite pastimes was catching a football. I thought I could be the next great receiver at Alabama. On the days Dad worked the seven-to-three shift, I'd collar him the instant he got home. "Dad, come throw the football to me." And most days, he would. Although he didn't throw the football like a regular quarterback. Dad would drag a folding lawn chair into the front yard and sit down. I'd run a pattern, and he'd sling the ball to me from the chair.

I didn't really understand why he did this. I'd ask him sometimes, and he'd say, "I'm pretty tired, so I'm just sitting down. Go out for another one." Being seven, I accepted this, and ran another pattern. It didn't occur to me that after working eight hours in a paper mill, a 50-year-old man didn't always want to come home and play. And I had no clue whatsoever that after standing on the concrete floor of the mill for hours on end, his knees and hips were so swollen and sore that he could barely walk, much less run around. But he knew how much I loved catching the football, so his tiredness, his aches and pains, didn't matter - he was going to do what his son wanted. Sacrifice.

The second lesson Dad taught me was: Always take a nap when you can. He was the King of Nappers. If you visited Mom and Dad at some point in the past 20 years or so, you probably already know this about Dad. He'd be in his recliner, listening to the conversation, and before you knew it he'd be taking a quick nap. At times he'd even take a nap while he was in the middle of a sentence, and when he woke up he'd start talking again right where he left off. Sometimes his napping would irritate the fire out of Mom - I think she got embarrassed that Dad would go to sleep in front of company - but it always sort of tickled me. And it was amazing at times, too. A couple of years ago Dad had surgery on his eye. I think if I ever had eye surgery I'd be too nervous and scared to sleep for about three days leading up to it. Nothing fazed Dad, though. An hour before the surgery began, he was in the prep area, snoozing away. The world would be a better place if we all napped more often.

The third thing I learned from Dad was humility. Dad had a ton of stories to share, but he almost never talked about himself - the stories were always about other people, people he knew. I didn't really notice this until a few years ago. Mom and I were cleaning out some old boxes and things, and I found a case of Army medals. I told you earlier that Dad fought in World War II. He'd told me often about his time in the war; he was stationed on Kodiak Island, off the coast of Alaska. He'd talk about the mosquitoes they had up there, and how big they were. There was an airstrip on the base, and he said sometimes the mosquitoes would land on the airstrip and the ground crews would gas them up before they realized it wasn't an airplane. To hear Dad tell it, his version of the war was pretty boring.

The medals made me realize that wasn't the case. Dad had gone to the European theatre late in the war, serving with his engineering unit in Belgium. He earned a Marksmanship medal and a Good Conduct medal. I asked Dad why he'd never told me about all this. He said, "Oh, it doesn't matter."

Dad volunteered for the Army, served with distinction in both the Pacific and European theatres, and earned multiple medals and other forms of recognition. And he didn't talk about it. To him, it didn't matter. What he did after the war - getting married, starting a family, being a good worker and provider - that was the important stuff. He was a humble man.

I'll close with the last thing Dad taught me: Find joy in simple things. And I'll explain this by telling you his favorite story about me.

When I was six years old, Dad and our friend Paul Davis took me fishing on a small lake. I don't remember much about the trip, other than both Dad and Mr. Davis telling me over and over that there weren't any big fish in the lake. If - IF - we caught anything, it would be a little fish.

Well. I hooked a fish. And we were all excited, because we'd been fishing a while and hadn't caught anything. And I was reeling it in, and Dad was helping me, and Mr. Davis was giving both of us advice, and we were all yelling, and I was so proud because little six-year-old me caught a fish and the men didn't, and I kept reeling and reeling and just as the fish got close to the pier - about four feet away - it jumped out of the water.

And it wasn't a little fish. It was a monstrous, hugely enormous fish, the Goliath of fishes, probably the biggest fish in the world at that time. It scared me senseless, seeing a fish that big, so naturally I threw my fishing pole into the water. Dad tried to grab it, but he wasn't fast enough. The fishing pole sank, and the fish swam away.
Paul Davis was speechless. Dad was angry. "You had that big fish right there!" he said. "Why did you throw your pole away?"

I said, "Daddy, I didn't want a big fish. I wanted one of those little fish you told me about."

Dad probably told that story a hundred times, and he laughed about it every time. It never failed to cheer him up.

Sacrifice. Humility. Take naps. Find joy in simple things. These are some of the many things Dad taught me. I'll never be the man my father was ... but he left me a good guideline to follow.

On the day he died, Albert Puckett was one of 6700 - from a statistical standpoint. For those of us who knew him, though, he was one of a kind.

(c) 2013 John Puckett