Photo: Tim Barnwell
My life was shaped by farm trucks, dairy cows, uncles, aunts, grandparents, a loving, storytelling mother, and … my Daddy.
When told that The Urban News this June was to feature “men,” I tossed my normal political eye aside, because there was only one man worth writing about.
You see, my Daddy hated politics and politicians. Maybe that’s why I was personally so curious about both as I grew up. But that’s not this column’s focus. I’m writing about a man who lived his life at a hands-on level … trying various ways to make survival money until he lucked into a temporary job as a substitute postal carrier (then worked his way up to acting postmaster). This was a career that meant a secure wage supporting his family of four and a chance to exercise his friendly rapport with an entire community.
For example, I recall his personally delivering late-arrival packages on his way home from work on Christmas Eve, or boxes of baby chicks that missed the carrier schedule and might otherwise starve or freeze over the weekend.
His rapport with people meant that anyone from our church back then would tell you what a singer he was—with a bass voice that filled the church. And anyone on my high school girls’ basket-ball team would remember him lovingly as “Papa Holder.”
And it is this man I was writing about in the following excerpt from a letter to a friend just after he died, accompanied by a passage from my personal journal.
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We buried Daddy with an assortment of totems. Chris (my 19-year-old son), Ray (my second husband) and I planned our own little farewell and had a private moment before the casket was closed the night before the funeral. We gave Daddy his Christmas presents—Christmas having embodied the true delight of his soul.
These included a remote-control dog from Chris, a frog that did back-flips from us, and a supply of peanut brittle (his favorite treat). I also put into his hand a napkin with…
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