My George

My daddy died last week. He was 91 years old, his body was tired, and his spirit was ready to be with Jesus. I can’t help but think of II Timothy 4:7, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.”

Even though I’ve known this was coming for a long time, it’s harder to let him go than I expected. He was 50 years old when I was born…I remember wondering when I was younger if he would be around for my wedding or to meet my children one day. He walked me down the aisle, helped me till my first garden at my first house, took my kids fishing and bought them a pineapple every time they came to his house when they were little. These are things I don’t take for granted.

Just the other day, my husband described Daddy as a tree. He said that a tree is strong. It is dependable. It offers shade (comfort and protection), but also lets you climb it. What a perfect description. I was reminded that God wants us to be like a tree planted by water…to grow deep roots so that we are not easily swayed. My dad had deep roots. He studied his Bible so often…he didn’t talk about what he had been reading lately, but his old King James Bible was marked up and battered, and he indirectly showed us all what he had been reading by his actions. He did not waver. I’m coming to appreciate this as I get older. When I lived with him, I just assumed this was how all families worked. I am so thankful for his deep and abiding faith.

As I mentioned before, Daddy was 50 when I was born. It took a lot of years for me to know that he was “old” to be a daddy – he was just “My George” (I’m not certain when I started calling him that, nor when I quit, but apparently, that was my title for him for many years). I think sometimes I got the benefit of being a grandkid without being a grandkid.

He and Mama took me everywhere they went – I never had a babysitter. The man loved a buffet, especially if it included catfish, more than any human should. We would drive hours all over North and Central Mississippi on Saturday afternoons and evenings to check out a new restaurant or visit an old one he especially liked. On those trips, there was ALWAYS a thermos of coffee. Always. He loved coffee more than he loved catfish if that was possible. And fleamarkets. He loved those too. I could write a novel about all the trips to “First Monday” in Ripley.

Around home, Daddy was always working. Building something, growing something, fixing something. When I could, I would putter around behind him, and he let me. I used to tell people that I know how to do things because George wanted me to know how to do things – watching and helping him created a confidence in me that I can figure things out. I can still smell his work clothes right now (long-sleeved denim work shirt and pants and a straw hat) and I instantly feel like I’m 7 again.

He also played. Not a whole lot, and he didn’t joke around with me much, but I have distinct memories of him doing cartwheels with me (yes, cartwheels, you do the math). We would go to town together some, and he would always buy me whatever pens I wanted…treasure to a kid. One Saturday, Mama wasn’t home for some reason, and Daddy and I had the house to ourselves. She came home around lunchtime and found me eating sardines with crackers and thousand island dressing with Daddy and she flipped out. I had no idea I wasn’t supposed to like this new exotic food.

If Daddy wasn’t working, he was probably talking. Talking about anything and everything. He loved to entertain others with his words…I know that I didn’t always appreciate this form of “entertainment”, but my friends thought he was so funny. I think the strangest part of dementia was that he quit talking. He would answer questions, but he no longer asked questions or spoke spontaneously. Once that happened, my grieving process started.

There are so many more memories I could share, but I’ll end with this poem I wrote in high school. I’m so thankful that George Salley was my daddy.

My George

When I was a little girl, I thought Daddy owned the world.
All that was needed to fix a bad day, was for Daddy to hug me and I’d be on my way.
If ever I couldn’t find him, or he wasn’t there when I called:
I knew there was no need to worry,
Because
He was
My George.

As I grew older and Daddy did too, I realized he wasn’t the man I thought I knew.
He was actually ordinary (though wonderful) and didn’t own the world, but he took care of me.
That didn’t change everything much, for I knew this was an important job.
I still called out
For
My George.

Now I see Daddy as a hero and a friend, he has done all he could through thick and through thin.
So in a sense,
In a certain way,
He does own the world (or at least my heart),
I will always love
My daddy,
My George.