It is said that God cares for us in many wondrous ways. There are times when His actions are not clearly understood by us. There are times when it’s unclear that He acts at all. But know this, that in the final analysis, He acts and He causes to Become… and that is when we can hear Thunder From the Throne…
The Bible book of Ezekiel Chapter 1 verses 22-28 "And over the heads of the living creatures there was the likeness of an expanse like the sparkle of awesome ice, stretched out over their heads up above. And under the expanse their wings were straight, one to the other. Each one had two wings covering on this side and each one had two covering on that side their bodies. And I got to hear the sound of their wings, a sound like that of vast waters, like the sound of the Almighty One, when they went, the sound of a tumult, like the sound of an encampment. When they stood still, they would let their wings down.
And there came to be a voice above the expanse that was over their head. (When they stood still, they would let their wings down.) And above the expanse that was over their head there was something in appearance like sapphire stone, the likeness of a throne. And upon the likeness of the throne there was a likeness of someone in appearance like an earthling man upon it, up above. And I got to see something like the glow of electrum, like the appearance of fire all around inside thereof, from the appearance of his hips and upward; and from the appearance of his hips and downward I saw something like the appearance of fire, and he had a brightness all around. There was something like the appearance of the bow that occurs in a cloud mass on the day of a pouring rain. That is how the appearance was of the brightness round about. It was the appearance of the likeness of the glory of Jehovah. When I got to see [it], then I fell upon my face, and I began to hear the voice of one speaking."
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Paul had worked late the night before. That morning there was a presentation to be made to an engineering team at one of the major auto companies concerning the progress of PVP&R testing. The testing had not gone well and it was only a couple of months before the product launch date. We were going to be one of the causes of a delayed launch. Costly!
Elizabeth, the Sr. Test Engineer, was to review much of the test data using the pivot table functions of a spreadsheet program. The data was complicated to understand and cumbersome to condense into a report. There was so much raw data and many conclusions to be drawn. Some of the technicians’ hand writing was difficult to decipher. Part of the problem was that the data should have been recorded using black ink pens, instead some used pencils, blue ink, or anything that was handy. Paul made a mental note to review test data recording procedures with everyone in the test department.
The meeting was to be held at 2:30pm and it was now about 8:30am. Presentation time was fast approaching and the stress levels were rising. Paul was hoping for some ‘miracle’ that would postpone the meeting until another day, perhaps next week. There were so many things to get done.
The morning coffee began to take its toll so Paul excused himself and started to walk down the hall toward the men’s restroom. Cliff came running out of the lab with an excited look on his face. “A plane just flew into one of the World Trade tower buildings in New York!” But even nature couldn’t wait for this news. By the time Paul finished, Cliff, who had been listening to the news on the radio exclaimed again, “Another plane just flew into the other tower!” It was at that very moment that every one of us began to get that sinking feeling of dread and despair. “There could be upwards of 30,000 people in those towers”, Paul thought. An unusual silence could be heard all over the lab. The silence rose above the hissing of the air compressors and clacking test cycling equipment. Paul looked at Cliff, “This country’s at war with somebody”.
As the events of the morning began to sink into everyone’s minds, like the thick heavy rumble of a thousand speeding race cars, Paul could feel the comforting sound of thunder from the throne……..
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Lights in the Sky
PRELOG:
The lights in the night sky shone clearly as I set my gaze upon a most exciting place. I turned my telescope southward with an altitude of 55º and azimuth of 160º. There in the Plossl eyepiece was the place that at once makes me feel so small and insignificant; while in the same instant breath of time makes me feel so necessary, so real. The place is Saturn. Its striated rings dancing with the rays of the sun millions of miles away; caring nothing about what I’m doing or what my issues may be.
Close by and with a red tinge hangs, Mars, as if hanging upon nothing but the hand of God. And there, sitting almost right on the horizon is the brightest of them all – Venus. All three are silently watching in tonight’s starry sky.
Attention turns inward as the gaze expands outward. So many different minds, different changes, and different reasons to believe; some far journeys we have taken, some sweet dreams we’ve had to leave. I realize that the dreams in my heart are as far from my touch as the dreams of those distant places. Still beauty persists and feeds our spirits – even the rebels we are.
A single point of light, a sphere containing broken, sweet dreams; a distant place so close but can’t even be touched. Such like a dream, such as you.
**************
A man sometimes forgets, but never those who have touched his heart. The love continues like a haunting, through the years; like benevolent ghost who lingers. Has this haunting happened to others? Men rarely speak of this phenomenon to others. ….
(more of this story to come)
The lights in the night sky shone clearly as I set my gaze upon a most exciting place. I turned my telescope southward with an altitude of 55º and azimuth of 160º. There in the Plossl eyepiece was the place that at once makes me feel so small and insignificant; while in the same instant breath of time makes me feel so necessary, so real. The place is Saturn. Its striated rings dancing with the rays of the sun millions of miles away; caring nothing about what I’m doing or what my issues may be.
Close by and with a red tinge hangs, Mars, as if hanging upon nothing but the hand of God. And there, sitting almost right on the horizon is the brightest of them all – Venus. All three are silently watching in tonight’s starry sky.
Attention turns inward as the gaze expands outward. So many different minds, different changes, and different reasons to believe; some far journeys we have taken, some sweet dreams we’ve had to leave. I realize that the dreams in my heart are as far from my touch as the dreams of those distant places. Still beauty persists and feeds our spirits – even the rebels we are.
A single point of light, a sphere containing broken, sweet dreams; a distant place so close but can’t even be touched. Such like a dream, such as you.
**************
A man sometimes forgets, but never those who have touched his heart. The love continues like a haunting, through the years; like benevolent ghost who lingers. Has this haunting happened to others? Men rarely speak of this phenomenon to others. ….
(more of this story to come)
Friday, November 13, 2009
Already Gone - Restart in Detroit
Restart in Detroit
When he could no longer work as a coal miner due to an accumulation of coal and rock dust in his lungs, Dad did what most men like him did- he sought a new beginning somewhere else. Several of mom’s brothers and a sister had moved to Detroit years before and were, by all accounts, doing pretty well. They offered to help Dad get a start in the ‘Motor City’. Since he could perform no manual labor due to the Black Lung disease, he certainly could not work in the auto factories. After moving in with my mother’s sister, as she had a big house on Townsend Street, he quickly found work as a security guard. The job turned into a sort of security guard/body guard for the owners of a small chain of independent grocery stores located mostly on Detroit west side.
The stores were owned by a family of Jews. There were few, if any, stores owned by Arabic speaking people at that time. Dad was actually employed by a company called Simpson Patrol which had been contracted by the Levy family to provide security and such for the six or seven stores they had. Dad soon became a trusted person with both companies and did well despite his physical limitations.
As in most large cities and for a variety of reasons, the very face of Detroit had started to change in 1965. The flight to the suburbs was underway. The Civil Rights movement was in high gear as well certain so called ‘militant groups’ were becoming more and more prominent. These were major changes for a family fresh out of the hills of West Virginia and my dad was suspicious of many of these changes. He had believed the hype and smear published by the feds, namely Hoover and the FBI against the ‘Black Panthers’ and others, like Malcolm X. In his mind these entities became hated as much as the ‘cool-aid color clothed, do-rag wearing fools' that paraded the streets all about. I heard a lot about these types of people from my father’s mouth and believed it all to be true. It became known to us and others that because of his work with the Jewish family in helping to protect their stores, he became a target of the Black Panthers, who were reportedly against any businesses in black neighborhoods that were not owned and operated by Blacks. In fact, there were two known assassination attempts made against Dad in those days. The first was when a rifle bullet was fired into his car as he drove into the parking lot of the 12th street store and a second one was when they shot the wrong man and Joe Moore, a co-worker lost his life. These incidents solidified my belief as to the nature of the Black Panthers and other ‘militant groups’.
Then there was the 1967 riot in Detroit. During that first Sunday, the day the riot got started, he was at the 12th street store helping to get the workers out and to shut the place down. Later that night, after coming home to get better armed, he went back to help secure the buildings as looting had become rampant. Over the next few days I saw him leaving and returning home with an ammo belt of shot gun shells, a Colt 45 semi-auto hand gun in a shoulder holster and a 38 police special in a hip holster. What happened here? - Why just a couple of years before he was a simple coal miner. Those images remain in my mind to this day.
We lived on the east side of Detroit. The direct effects of the riot were not as pronounced as it was on the west side of town. Though we saw national guard troops riding in troop carriers and jeeps, all carrying rifles and other arms, there was relatively little looting and killing. The family who lived, then, in the house on the corner went out and looted a sofa from, we think, Federals Department store. As they were carrying it across the Townsend foot bridge toward their house, Dad, who sitting on the front porch, commented, that the sofa would sitting out in the alley for garbage within six months. Sure enough, his words were prophetic. He had stated that because they did not earn the money to pay for the sofa, they would not appreciate the value of it and would ‘dog it out’.
That fall I entered the 9th grade. High school was so vastly different from junior high. Kids seemed more pugnacious in junior high. Generally speaking, everyone was more laid back and settled in high school, generally speaking. From my perspective kids were becoming more socially aware of themselves and others around them. We were growing up. I joined ROTC, I think, because I had always wanted to be a Marine since I was 7 or 8 years old. I got some flak from these guys who were labeled ‘militant’ by some of the teachers.
A friend from junior high, Al Justice, started to hang out with the 'militants' as we used to call them. The group thAT Al associated with were known as 'The Republic of New Afrika' or RNA. Al and I were cool from our days in junior high. But we seemed to drift apart as we got older. Al seemed drawn to the RNA a seemingly militant group., among who were the two Trice brothers (Morgan and Bokeba). At first, I associated these guys with the groups my dad used to talk about. They wore dark sunglasses and seemed to not listen to teachers. They were not bad as criminal bad goes but seemed recalcitrant and unwilling to go along with the crowd. The Trice brothers dressed in the U.S. army issued fatigue clothing of the day, usually olive drab green and combat boots. These guys even wore a denatured 50 caliber bullet on a string as an amulet or necklace. This appeared dangerous to me if not rebellious. They seemed angry all the time. I often wondered why but kept my distance. For the most part though, most of the kids I hung with held a quiet admiration and respect for the Trice’s and Al Justice. They were serious minded though knew how to laugh and have a good time. Still, they represented the RNA, who appeared to me to be similar to the Black Panthers who were, in turn, responsible for trying to kill my dad. I hated them, respected them and feared them all at once.
Some years later, while attending classes at Wayne State University in Detroit, I learned a great deal more about people and certain affiliations. There were also those on the fringe of any group; those who had become truly angry and obsessed with a cause. The Trice brothers were not of this sort. They were sincere in what they strove to teach and obtain. I would have been glad to have struggled with them in those high school days, but time, family, and life itself led me down a different path. I will always remember Al, Bokeba and Morgan and many others who either knowingly or not, helped shape the person I am still becoming. I’ve looked around for those days and times but they were already gone.
When he could no longer work as a coal miner due to an accumulation of coal and rock dust in his lungs, Dad did what most men like him did- he sought a new beginning somewhere else. Several of mom’s brothers and a sister had moved to Detroit years before and were, by all accounts, doing pretty well. They offered to help Dad get a start in the ‘Motor City’. Since he could perform no manual labor due to the Black Lung disease, he certainly could not work in the auto factories. After moving in with my mother’s sister, as she had a big house on Townsend Street, he quickly found work as a security guard. The job turned into a sort of security guard/body guard for the owners of a small chain of independent grocery stores located mostly on Detroit west side.
The stores were owned by a family of Jews. There were few, if any, stores owned by Arabic speaking people at that time. Dad was actually employed by a company called Simpson Patrol which had been contracted by the Levy family to provide security and such for the six or seven stores they had. Dad soon became a trusted person with both companies and did well despite his physical limitations.
As in most large cities and for a variety of reasons, the very face of Detroit had started to change in 1965. The flight to the suburbs was underway. The Civil Rights movement was in high gear as well certain so called ‘militant groups’ were becoming more and more prominent. These were major changes for a family fresh out of the hills of West Virginia and my dad was suspicious of many of these changes. He had believed the hype and smear published by the feds, namely Hoover and the FBI against the ‘Black Panthers’ and others, like Malcolm X. In his mind these entities became hated as much as the ‘cool-aid color clothed, do-rag wearing fools' that paraded the streets all about. I heard a lot about these types of people from my father’s mouth and believed it all to be true. It became known to us and others that because of his work with the Jewish family in helping to protect their stores, he became a target of the Black Panthers, who were reportedly against any businesses in black neighborhoods that were not owned and operated by Blacks. In fact, there were two known assassination attempts made against Dad in those days. The first was when a rifle bullet was fired into his car as he drove into the parking lot of the 12th street store and a second one was when they shot the wrong man and Joe Moore, a co-worker lost his life. These incidents solidified my belief as to the nature of the Black Panthers and other ‘militant groups’.
Then there was the 1967 riot in Detroit. During that first Sunday, the day the riot got started, he was at the 12th street store helping to get the workers out and to shut the place down. Later that night, after coming home to get better armed, he went back to help secure the buildings as looting had become rampant. Over the next few days I saw him leaving and returning home with an ammo belt of shot gun shells, a Colt 45 semi-auto hand gun in a shoulder holster and a 38 police special in a hip holster. What happened here? - Why just a couple of years before he was a simple coal miner. Those images remain in my mind to this day.
We lived on the east side of Detroit. The direct effects of the riot were not as pronounced as it was on the west side of town. Though we saw national guard troops riding in troop carriers and jeeps, all carrying rifles and other arms, there was relatively little looting and killing. The family who lived, then, in the house on the corner went out and looted a sofa from, we think, Federals Department store. As they were carrying it across the Townsend foot bridge toward their house, Dad, who sitting on the front porch, commented, that the sofa would sitting out in the alley for garbage within six months. Sure enough, his words were prophetic. He had stated that because they did not earn the money to pay for the sofa, they would not appreciate the value of it and would ‘dog it out’.
That fall I entered the 9th grade. High school was so vastly different from junior high. Kids seemed more pugnacious in junior high. Generally speaking, everyone was more laid back and settled in high school, generally speaking. From my perspective kids were becoming more socially aware of themselves and others around them. We were growing up. I joined ROTC, I think, because I had always wanted to be a Marine since I was 7 or 8 years old. I got some flak from these guys who were labeled ‘militant’ by some of the teachers.
A friend from junior high, Al Justice, started to hang out with the 'militants' as we used to call them. The group thAT Al associated with were known as 'The Republic of New Afrika' or RNA. Al and I were cool from our days in junior high. But we seemed to drift apart as we got older. Al seemed drawn to the RNA a seemingly militant group., among who were the two Trice brothers (Morgan and Bokeba). At first, I associated these guys with the groups my dad used to talk about. They wore dark sunglasses and seemed to not listen to teachers. They were not bad as criminal bad goes but seemed recalcitrant and unwilling to go along with the crowd. The Trice brothers dressed in the U.S. army issued fatigue clothing of the day, usually olive drab green and combat boots. These guys even wore a denatured 50 caliber bullet on a string as an amulet or necklace. This appeared dangerous to me if not rebellious. They seemed angry all the time. I often wondered why but kept my distance. For the most part though, most of the kids I hung with held a quiet admiration and respect for the Trice’s and Al Justice. They were serious minded though knew how to laugh and have a good time. Still, they represented the RNA, who appeared to me to be similar to the Black Panthers who were, in turn, responsible for trying to kill my dad. I hated them, respected them and feared them all at once.
Some years later, while attending classes at Wayne State University in Detroit, I learned a great deal more about people and certain affiliations. There were also those on the fringe of any group; those who had become truly angry and obsessed with a cause. The Trice brothers were not of this sort. They were sincere in what they strove to teach and obtain. I would have been glad to have struggled with them in those high school days, but time, family, and life itself led me down a different path. I will always remember Al, Bokeba and Morgan and many others who either knowingly or not, helped shape the person I am still becoming. I’ve looked around for those days and times but they were already gone.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Already Gone - Sunday Mornings
Sunday Mornings
The best times of all were the first days of summer vacations from school, fishing at Bluestone Dam with my Dad, picnics with the whole family at Fitzpatrick Park, matinees at the Lyric theatre in uptown Beckley and summer Sunday mornings. The first day of summer vacation was always good. I felt free, newly liberated and powerful. I could do anything, take on any adventure that might come my way or that I could find with my friends. But there was something about Sunday mornings that cause me to pause and reflect on how easy life was then.
Sunday mornings were when Mom would start up the meals for the day. Fried chicken, rice and gravy for breakfast and supper or a nice round steak tenderized with Dad’s hammer, beaten through a towel, then flour coated and fried in the same manner as fried chicken. Then, of course, was Mom’s three layer cakes, from scratch as no coal miners wife would touch a box cake in those times.
All this was going on before Sunday school or church started. A big breakfast was always prepared on Sunday morning as we must have needed all that nourishment to get us through to the time after church.
The church was located near the top of the highest hill in this coal mining town of Skelton, W. Va.. It was the ‘colored camp’ church as we called it then. The white camp had its own church at the other end of Skelton. Not much integregation in those days, even amongst those professing to serve God. The town was bi-sected by two roads and a railroad; all parallel to each other. One was a dirt road, the other a paved road that carried most of the through traffic. The railroad carried a coal train that came through two to three times week and never on Sunday.
Our house was at the farthest end of the dirt road, house number 100. The railroad lay ten yards or so beyond the dirt road and the paved or ’high road’ lay 20 yards beyond and 12 feet or so higher elevation than the railroad line. All three had to be crossed by the folks living on our side of the dirt road in order to go most anywhere in Skelton except the company store.
Getting to church was no real task for us youngsters, but must have been a real pain for the older ones. You see, once you crossed the ‘high road’ there was no road or path for cars leading up to the church. We had to climb the pretty steep hill, walk through other folks’ yard and then climb 15 to 16 steps to get into the building. My brother and his friend Sonny were, for a time, the church janitors and bell ringers. One or both of them had to show up early to ring the bells that indicated when a service or Sunday school was starting or ending. The bell would ring loud and clear and could be heard from anywhere in town. In their over exuberance, sometimes, pulling the bell rope too much would end up with the bell flipping over a full 360, winding the rope around the bell crank. Someone would have to climb into the belfry and un-flip the bell.
Sunday mornings meant a clean crisp smell in the air, somebody’s rooster crowing in the near distance, green trees and calmness not felt on any other day besides Sunday. Dad was always the most rested and not busy with this or that. Mom was cooking her best, getting us off to Sunday school then dressing her best and following an hour or so later for church services.
Sunday was when I could dress up in my suit coat or sport jacket, wearing it open like ‘Jed Clampet’ used to in the Beverly Hillbillies TV show. I used to think that was cool. When I would try to walk like Jed along the railroad track, Mr. Whitlow would see me and I believe that was when he thought I looked like a drunk man walking, hence the nickname ‘Drunky Man’
I don’t remember Dad going to church, though I’m told that he was very active at one time. That’s another part of this story.
The family left Skelton when I was 11 years old. The arms of some of those who climbed the hill to church with us were still waving when last I looked out the back window of the car. I never was able to get that Sunday morning feeling again. I was never at home again. I searched for it, home, Sunday mornings over the years. For the next 42 years this longing for home and Sunday mornings remained in my heart. Feeling lost, not really fitting in; no matter where I was. I looked around, in places all over this country and began to realize – how much of me was already gone.
The best times of all were the first days of summer vacations from school, fishing at Bluestone Dam with my Dad, picnics with the whole family at Fitzpatrick Park, matinees at the Lyric theatre in uptown Beckley and summer Sunday mornings. The first day of summer vacation was always good. I felt free, newly liberated and powerful. I could do anything, take on any adventure that might come my way or that I could find with my friends. But there was something about Sunday mornings that cause me to pause and reflect on how easy life was then.
Sunday mornings were when Mom would start up the meals for the day. Fried chicken, rice and gravy for breakfast and supper or a nice round steak tenderized with Dad’s hammer, beaten through a towel, then flour coated and fried in the same manner as fried chicken. Then, of course, was Mom’s three layer cakes, from scratch as no coal miners wife would touch a box cake in those times.
All this was going on before Sunday school or church started. A big breakfast was always prepared on Sunday morning as we must have needed all that nourishment to get us through to the time after church.
The church was located near the top of the highest hill in this coal mining town of Skelton, W. Va.. It was the ‘colored camp’ church as we called it then. The white camp had its own church at the other end of Skelton. Not much integregation in those days, even amongst those professing to serve God. The town was bi-sected by two roads and a railroad; all parallel to each other. One was a dirt road, the other a paved road that carried most of the through traffic. The railroad carried a coal train that came through two to three times week and never on Sunday.
Our house was at the farthest end of the dirt road, house number 100. The railroad lay ten yards or so beyond the dirt road and the paved or ’high road’ lay 20 yards beyond and 12 feet or so higher elevation than the railroad line. All three had to be crossed by the folks living on our side of the dirt road in order to go most anywhere in Skelton except the company store.
Getting to church was no real task for us youngsters, but must have been a real pain for the older ones. You see, once you crossed the ‘high road’ there was no road or path for cars leading up to the church. We had to climb the pretty steep hill, walk through other folks’ yard and then climb 15 to 16 steps to get into the building. My brother and his friend Sonny were, for a time, the church janitors and bell ringers. One or both of them had to show up early to ring the bells that indicated when a service or Sunday school was starting or ending. The bell would ring loud and clear and could be heard from anywhere in town. In their over exuberance, sometimes, pulling the bell rope too much would end up with the bell flipping over a full 360, winding the rope around the bell crank. Someone would have to climb into the belfry and un-flip the bell.
Sunday mornings meant a clean crisp smell in the air, somebody’s rooster crowing in the near distance, green trees and calmness not felt on any other day besides Sunday. Dad was always the most rested and not busy with this or that. Mom was cooking her best, getting us off to Sunday school then dressing her best and following an hour or so later for church services.
Sunday was when I could dress up in my suit coat or sport jacket, wearing it open like ‘Jed Clampet’ used to in the Beverly Hillbillies TV show. I used to think that was cool. When I would try to walk like Jed along the railroad track, Mr. Whitlow would see me and I believe that was when he thought I looked like a drunk man walking, hence the nickname ‘Drunky Man’
I don’t remember Dad going to church, though I’m told that he was very active at one time. That’s another part of this story.
The family left Skelton when I was 11 years old. The arms of some of those who climbed the hill to church with us were still waving when last I looked out the back window of the car. I never was able to get that Sunday morning feeling again. I was never at home again. I searched for it, home, Sunday mornings over the years. For the next 42 years this longing for home and Sunday mornings remained in my heart. Feeling lost, not really fitting in; no matter where I was. I looked around, in places all over this country and began to realize – how much of me was already gone.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Already Gone - Paw Paw Whitlow
Paw Paw Whitlow
He would call me 'DrunkyMan' but when he walked down the road he walked more like a drunk man than I ever did. I guess I looked drunk when i walked down the railroad tracks. He was Dad's best friend though old enough to be his dad. His Sunday best was a bright yellow, silky, waist length jacket that he wore with a brightly colored, chest spread necktie.
From the earliest days of my knowing him he'd come home every day from his day shift as a West Virginia coal miner, dinner bucket with a honey bun or candy left for his grand kids or me, whomever could get to him first. My dad, too, was as miner but worked the hoot owl shift and came home near midnight. His leftover treats were always there in the morning.
Whitlow, as dad would call him, loved to hunt with my dad in the fall of the year. Mostly rabbits, no deer, though I'm sure there were plenty around. When November rolled around each year Dad, Whitlow and two or three others in Skelton, W.Va. would get together to slaughter the one or two hogs they had raised all year. One day was spent at our house and all the men would meet there, starting early in the morning, before sunrise. We had a big fifty gallon barrel dad would build a fire under the barrel for dipping the slaughtered hogs in to scald off the hair. Whitlow would bring his huge butcher's knife to the occasion and after dad would hog tie the feet, he would straddle the back of the hog, reaching under the neck and pulled the blade across. The hog would then be hoisted with a block and tackle up onto an old swing set to be bled and gutted.
The next day the men would meet at the other's place and begin again the process with other's hogs.
Whitlow and Dad were the best of friends and remained so for the remainder of their days; sitting on their front or back porches and telling stories about and to each other of their exploits.
Whitlow was like a 3rd grandpa to me, though not related to me by blood, certainly by spirit.
I was 17 years old when my Dad passed away. My brohter and I visited him at the hospital on the night of January 27, 1971. He was unable to respond to us because was dying. After a while we left and went home. Mom received a call early the next morning perhaps 4am and he was gone
On a business trip near Beulah, North Dakota, I had arrived back at my motel room when I called my wife. She told me that Paw Paw Whitlow had passed away that day. this was in 1993. I cried that night like baby.
I have many stories concerning him and my Dad as I will remember them both all the days of life. Sometimes, I look around for them, but they are already gone.
He would call me 'DrunkyMan' but when he walked down the road he walked more like a drunk man than I ever did. I guess I looked drunk when i walked down the railroad tracks. He was Dad's best friend though old enough to be his dad. His Sunday best was a bright yellow, silky, waist length jacket that he wore with a brightly colored, chest spread necktie.
From the earliest days of my knowing him he'd come home every day from his day shift as a West Virginia coal miner, dinner bucket with a honey bun or candy left for his grand kids or me, whomever could get to him first. My dad, too, was as miner but worked the hoot owl shift and came home near midnight. His leftover treats were always there in the morning.
Whitlow, as dad would call him, loved to hunt with my dad in the fall of the year. Mostly rabbits, no deer, though I'm sure there were plenty around. When November rolled around each year Dad, Whitlow and two or three others in Skelton, W.Va. would get together to slaughter the one or two hogs they had raised all year. One day was spent at our house and all the men would meet there, starting early in the morning, before sunrise. We had a big fifty gallon barrel dad would build a fire under the barrel for dipping the slaughtered hogs in to scald off the hair. Whitlow would bring his huge butcher's knife to the occasion and after dad would hog tie the feet, he would straddle the back of the hog, reaching under the neck and pulled the blade across. The hog would then be hoisted with a block and tackle up onto an old swing set to be bled and gutted.
The next day the men would meet at the other's place and begin again the process with other's hogs.
Whitlow and Dad were the best of friends and remained so for the remainder of their days; sitting on their front or back porches and telling stories about and to each other of their exploits.
Whitlow was like a 3rd grandpa to me, though not related to me by blood, certainly by spirit.
I was 17 years old when my Dad passed away. My brohter and I visited him at the hospital on the night of January 27, 1971. He was unable to respond to us because was dying. After a while we left and went home. Mom received a call early the next morning perhaps 4am and he was gone
On a business trip near Beulah, North Dakota, I had arrived back at my motel room when I called my wife. She told me that Paw Paw Whitlow had passed away that day. this was in 1993. I cried that night like baby.
I have many stories concerning him and my Dad as I will remember them both all the days of life. Sometimes, I look around for them, but they are already gone.
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