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I'll Never Forget The Time

June 16, 2006

In my opinion many of the problems we have today are due to a lack of curmudgeons and reprobates who are given to pricking the bubbles of conceit politicians, judges, and bureaucrats blow up around themselves.

One of my favorite reprobates was Lewis Grizzard, who grew up in the tiny town of Moreland, Georgia. Grizzard eventually became a sports editor, and then columnist with the Atlanta Journal and Constitution, although he got sidetracked to Chicago for a few years in between.

Grizzard's book My Daddy Was A Pistol And I'm A Son Of A Gun is an immortal paean of a son's love for his father.

Lewis was born with a congenital heart defect and, after four operations, he died on March 20, 1994, at age 47.

I recently stumbled across one of his books, When My Love Returns From The Ladies Room, Will I Be Too Old To Care again and thought this homily on parents and a father appropriate. I don't think Grizzard will mind my reproducing it here for children and their fathers.

Chuck Corry

I'll Never Forget The Time...

We all go back a long way, and quite naturally we begin telling war stories, the ones that inevitably begin with "I'll never forget the time..."

We don't see each other that often anymore, and we haven't seen each other's parents in years, and there is the southern custom of asking about one's parents.

It goes, "How's your mamma and 'en (and them)?" —which translates into, "In what condition are your mother and your other first of kin?"

We took turns talking about our parents. "My mother puts terrible guilt trips on me," somebody said. "I'll call and tell her I'm on my way shopping, and she'll say, 'I wish I had the money to go shopping.'"

"Mine does the same thing," said somebody else. "I won a trip to Las Vegas from my company and I called my mother and told her about it."

"She said, 'I guess that means you won't be coming to see me in a long time.'"

"I said, 'Mama, it's just for a week.' She said, 'I may not be here another week.'

"She's in perfect health, but I called her every day from Vegas just to make sure she hadn't contracted some sort of terrible disease."

I said my mother still worries about whether or not I'm wearing clean underwear because I might be in a wreck and the doctors would see my dirty undershorts.

"My mother does that, too," somebody else spoke up, "but it all means they really love us."

It does. It's funny how our attitudes change about our parents as we get older and they get older. These people were our enemies when we were children.

They were the ones who made us eat our vegetables, made us go to bed earlier than we wanted to, fussed over our grades, lectured us and wouldn't allow us out of the house with dirty underwear.

But you forget all that, and you would miss the guilt trips if your folks weren't around to send you on them.

"Tell them about your dad and the biscuits," one friend asked another.

"God, it still makes me cry," she began.

"Every morning when I go to work, I go right by my father's house. And every morning —I've been doing this for years — I stop by and drink coffee with him and he makes biscuits for me because he doesn't want me going to work on an empty stomach.

One day I overslept, and I knew I wouldn't be able to stop by and see him. The weather was awful. It was cold and it was raining."

So I called my dad and told him I wouldn't have time to stop by. He said, 'You won't?' I could hear the disappointment in his voice, but I said, 'Daddy, I'll stop by tomorrow morning, so don't worry about it.'

So I get in the car and I start driving to work. As soon as I rounded the corner to drive past the house, I saw this figure standing out in the cold and the rain with a sack in his hand.

It was Daddy. He was out there waiting for me so I would still have my biscuits."

Everybody in the room was in tears when she finished. 'Tis the season to be thankful. Thanks for parental love, the purest love of all.

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Issues The Equal Justice Foundation Deals With

| Prohibition & War On Drugs | Vote Fraud & Election Issues |