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I just never seem to tire of hearing these stories
Dr. Coleman tells from his younger days. He has an
uncanny talent of tying them to Christian values
and how we should live. Thank you Byrns and Happy
Father's Day! - Bob
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Leaning on
Daddy
By Dr. G.
Byrns Coleman
This is a story
about Daddy and me; mostly, it is a memory of Daddy
one day long ago. The story begins on Brown Street
where Mr. Cooper lived. He was no stranger. His
house was next door to one of my best friends from
high school, and in sight of the houses where my
two grandmothers would later live.
You could almost see his
house from where we lived on 4th Avenue. Mr.
Cooper was older than our parents, tall, skinny,
with graying hair, and very quiet. He liked fishing
and sometimes would let us boys go with him. One
fishing trip still sticks in my mind, even after
all these years.
About six of us boys, all of
us 10 or 11 years old, went that day with Mr.
Cooper to Sulphur Fork Creek to fish. The creek was
so shallow I doubt if anyone ever caught a fish
there. I think it was the idea of going fishing
that fascinated us. We had homemade poles, worms,
and all, just like we’d read in The Adventures
of Huckleberry Finn.
We rode from Mr.
Cooper’s house on Brown Street to the bridge
that crossed the creek on the hill as you leave
Eastland Heights, a neighborhood sprawled along
both sides of the highway leading out
of Springfield with lots of houses, three
grocery stores, one church, two auto repair
garages, and two auto junkyards. We parked near the
bridge and made our way through the underbrush down
the bank to the creek.
Sulphur Fork Creek is shallow
at most places and is almost completely shaded by
thick-limbed trees on both sides. The sun seldom
broke through the trees. The deepest place on this
part of the creek was Log Hole, our only swimming
place. It was 4 to 5 feet deep and was only about
twice the size of a good, big living room.
This was the most popular
place on the creek, and those of us who learned how
to swim did it there. The first swimming pool in
our town was not built until my senior year in high
school, and growing up in the middle section of
Tennessee oceans and rivers were not even a part of
our imaginations.
Back then, our place was Log
Hole on the Sulphur Fork Creek. It was a few
miles up stream from the swimming hole that we
spent most of this particular day fishing, wading,
just having a good time, being for that day relaxed
and lazy, like Tom and Huck in Mark Twain’s
famous book.
This story focuses on a pair
of “brogans” – high top, lace-up
shoes, expensive for that day. I was wearing
my brand-spanking new brogans on that trip.
After the day wore on and we had long since given
up on catching any fish, I took off my shoes and
put them on a rock to keep them dry while we still
waded and played in the creek.
It was a great day, but even
great days have to come to an end. Mid-afternoon,
Mr. Cooper called a halt to the water games and the
frolicking. It was time to go home. When I
went back to get my shoes, they were gone. But, one
place in the creek looks about like any other
place. Maybe I was not looking at the right place.
I panicked. I simply couldn’t go home without
my new shoes. I looked and looked and looked. The
shoes were gone!
Mr. Cooper, who had been more
patient than I deserved, finally decided he
couldn’t wait any longer and he and my friends
left. I simply refused to go. I stayed, still
looking for my shoes.
I don’t remember how
long I stayed, but finally I gave up looking. The
shoes were gone! I headed through the woods toward
the bridge on the Eastland Heights road leading
into Springfield.
When I reached the highway, I
was still several miles from home on 4th
Avenue. The hot pavement burned my bare feet.
I tried to stay on the shoulder of the road the
best I could. The rocks hurt my feet.
What a sight I must have been
to the few who passed in their cars – a lonely
little boy who must have indeed looked like a
homeless orphan. They surely must have
wondered who I was and what was I doing out here on
this lonely stretch of highway. No one
stopped! Hot pavement and hard rocks! Burning
and hurting feet! Spirit dampened and the day
ruined because of lost shoes! And, most of all, in
my mind, “What am I going to tell
Daddy?”
What I remember most is
looking up and seeing the car coming, beginning to
slow down, and finally pulling over. There
was my Daddy, who did not own a car but had gotten
a friend to bring him out the road toward Eastland
Heights where he knew we’d gone. He leaned out
the window and said, “Son, are you all
right?” I never knew the details.
Evidently, when Mr. Cooper and the boys got home
and I wasn’t there, Mama called Daddy at work.
Daddy left work, hailed a ride, and came looking.
If I had still been at the creek in the woods, I
guess they would have parked the car and made their
way through the underbrush to find me. Daddy knew I
was somewhere between the bridge at Eastland
Heights and Log Hole.
In later years, I thought
about the good shepherd who went looking for the
lost sheep and was determined, whatever the cost,
to find the sheep that was not in the fold. The
sheep was lost, and the shepherd came. That day,
Daddy came! It was an old car, one seated, with
“running boards.” (My grandchildren
wanted to know, “What is a ‘running
board’?”) I stood on the running
board on the passenger’s side with
Daddy’s arm around me as we rode the several
miles back into town.
Even now, in church when we
sing that old church hymn, “Leaning, leaning,
safe and secure from every harm; leaning, leaning,
leaning on the everlasting arms,” I remember
that day. It’s been almost 60 years, and
I still can feel Daddy’s arm reaching out and
holding on to me as we rode toward home.
Daddy and I never talked
about that day. After I got older, I heard him say
he knew who got my shoes. Other than that, that day
was forever buried in my memory and his. I was
worried about losing the new shoes; he was worried
about me. I was trying to figure out what to
say to Daddy; he never gave me a chance to say
anything.
Remember the story of the
prodigal son? The boy had a confession ready, but
the father didn’t listen. He was too busy
hugging, rejoicing, and getting the fatted calf
ready for the welcome home party. I wasn’t a
prodigal in the same sense, but like the boy in
that Bible story, I too needed to get home, but I
was worried that Daddy would be mad. How would I
ever explain about the lost shoes? Like the Daddy
in that story, my Daddy never let me get that far
either. He did not fuss about the shoes. He
simply said: “Son, are you all right?”
Daddy lived to be 91 and died
17 years ago. His birthday would have been June 3.
It was on another June 3rd a few years ago while on
a family vacation at Surfside Beach, South
Carolina, that this experience came rushing back
into my mind. I guess thinking about Daddy that day
psyched me up for it, but as I walked barefoot from
the ocean to the house, the hot sand burned my
feet, and suddenly in my memory, I was back almost
60 years ago walking along a hot highway in
Springfield, Tennessee -- Mr. Cooper, Sulphur Fork
Creek, my lost shoes, and Daddy coming in the car
with running boards.
Most of all, I remembered
Daddy’s strong arm reaching around me, holding
me tight as we rode back toward town, a feeling of
snugness and security, and the good feeling that we
were going home. “Precious memories, how
they linger, how they ever flood my soul . .
.”
So, Daddy, on this
Father’s Day, 2010, this tribute is for you
and Fathers everywhere, and my prayer is simply
this: “Thank you, God, for my Daddy and
memories of him that still bless my life, and thank
you for fathers everywhere who love and care for
their children and, in so many ways, demonstrate
for them the love of God the Father! AMEN.”
June 12, 2010
About the
Author
G. Byrns Coleman is Professor
of Religion and Chair of Department of Religion
& Philosophy, Wingate
University, Wingate, NC
. He is also a member of Wingate
Baptist Church
.
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