Dad
My Lilly grandparents were born in the 1870’s. I have been told that a major goal of my granddad Lilly was to be the richest Lilly of the name, including distant cousin Eli. He invested in a lot of property, in gold mines, in sawmills and built a dam with a four story water-powered mill. He died of pneumonia at age 42, leaving a widow with six small children.
One by one, the properties were sold, including the mill to provide income for the growing family. Only about 250 acres including their home remained.
My father was eleven years old when his dad died. He started to work full time on their farm after finishing the eighth grade. At age 18, he and my 16-year-old mother “ran off” to Bristol, Tennessee and were married.
Dad stayed at his home and Mom at her house for two years. At that time they were deeded 25 acres of grandfather’s land which included what one might say was a rustic house. This site was adjacent to the mill and the beautiful Bluestone River. The backwater from the mill dam provided the boundary for two sides of our farm. On the far side of the river was a rather steep hill which was the backdrop of reflections in the mill pond.
It was truly a beautiful sight. Swimming and fishing became the favorite pastime for our young family.
Dad realized that labor intensive farming was the only thing possible with such small acreage, so truck farming that involved all hands was the way we earned a living. We became self sufficient in terms of food, and tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, black-eyed peas, okra, lima beans, and cantaloupe were the cash crops. Market day was every Saturday in Bluefield, West Virginia, some 20 miles away.
Dad, each morning, would start the fire, go to feed, and return to make poor-do (bacon-fat) gravy which was good eating over Mom’s hot biscuits. When we kids were very young, Dad had his hands full with all the cries to “cut up” our biscuits with gravy.
Remember the songs, I’ll be back in a Year, Little Darling? In 1940, at the age of 35, with a family of 5 kids, he got notice to be drafted for one year. With the help of others, he was deferred. Three sons with their father could have been in World War II.
Dad was an avid reader. He made models to explain to his kids how the earth revolved and rotated, what caused the seasons and how the moon behaved. He became the local unpaid vet for sick farm animals and did castrations.
From sources that I don’t understand, he could identify every tree and shrub in the woods. He knew the kinds of lumber. He knew how to establish the pitch of a roof and how to do plumbing and work with electricity. He helped his neighbors with butchering and curing their meat. He could repair (sometimes with hay-bale-wire) a 1932 B-Model Ford pick-up and kept it running for many years.
One of his favorite past-times was fishing. In late February, 1979, while fishing for trout with a friend, he had a heart attack. The doctors at the hospital said he would recover, but he died two days later. He was 73 years old.
His kids that lived some distance away did not get to see him during this time. In the hospital he kept telling my mom how much he loved her and his kids.
The following poem was written by Henry Hoffman, his son-in-law, about two years after Dad’s death.
On the Mountain
In April, in Spring softening after rain
Climbing, his widow, daughter and I
Searched steep woods for those wild things
He hid there, ginseng and ramps on the sly
Alcoves below old cliffs near spring he
knew
Since childhood, which he could have found
For us in minutes, but we missed,
Being less wise to the woods on sloping ground
Padded with pine, soaked yesterday but now
Spongy, pungent, air tanged
With tannin, pinene, to lift out plants
Smelling of garlic or shaped like man hanged
We rambled, searching I suppose
For something of him
Or something he left for us purposely,
Not easily discovered on his hiding hill.
It should be obvious that I am very proud of my dad and that I loved him very much. It is our biological parents that make us what we are. It is our environment that makes us how we are. I believe that how I am has been due to my father more than any other person. Mom would be a close second. My grandfather Stovall would be third.
How would you rate your life influences? On this Father’s Day, why not tell your father what he means to you. If he is not alive, think about him.
-- Percy