Charles

I was attempting to find a picture of Len Lews and came across this blog. I was a frequent customer of your dad's place and became friends. My ex-wife and I had a son in June of 1972 and I have memories of your dad and mom bringing their baby into the restaurant and we would sit the babies side by side and visit. Is this possible, or are my memories fuzzy? Things could get fuzzy in that wonderful place. Are there any pictures surviving of Len Lews? Also do you know the origin of the name? Sorry to say that I lost contact with your parents and didn't know of your loss. Charles

Charlie O.

I saw this card, and it just reminded me how little we do understand the "why" of life and death. I know Melvin's death is heartbreaking and has given you a great loss. But I have seen this wonderful, successful family thrive through al the years, and I've been proud to have had a little part in it. Even though I have long since been away from the family, you always treated me like family and with respect. I always enjoyed this Christmas letters over the years as I could watch the family grow up. I told Melvin after you first met that he would be a lucky and blessed man if you two few in love (and I was right).

Jan, you are a strong woman and always a stabilizing force in everything you did. I think back now on your mother and daddy as I cared for them medical for a long time. I remember making house calls, and you are al a part of wonderful memories of a good life in medicine.

I wish my personal life had not suffered so but we can never go back - just have to go forward. Now that's you have to do - go forward - enjoy those memories and your great children and grandchildren and know we'll all eventually be back home. You and Melvin were and are an important part of what my life has blessed me with. Thanks to you for your call to me, it meant lots.

It will be hard for awhile, but you have a good life with Melvin to look back on and a good future and support to see you along the way.

Ted & Nancy

We were so saddened to return to Starkville from our holiday and learn about Melvin's passing. He was such a kind, happy man who always had a smile and something positive to say about everything. We know he loved his family and that you will miss him terribly.

Rachel

I know there are really no words that will ease the pain of losing Melvin. He as one of a kind, and Patrick & I adore him. He was always checking in on us. I know that Patrick will miss his friendship and guidance.

I don't know what we will do without him. He saved the day many times with his vast knowledge of home improvements.

Paula & Don

Words escape me to comfort you, but just know that so many people respected and loved Melvin. Not but a few people could achieve such worthy qualities as Melvin did. He as a good man.

Jean & Charles

It was so special to know Melvin. He was proud of his family & always so friendly. We enjoyed being in a Bible class with him, and were proud to have him as an alderman, but most especially as a friend.

Ray

I can't tell you how shocked and saddened I was to hear of Melvin's sudden passing. Only a couple of weeks ago we as advising me at Bell's Building Supply on what I should buy and what not t buy to repair a plumbing problem I was having.

Melvin never failed to stop and speak; we would often reminisce about the "Len-Lew" days, etc.

From 13 January 2008

We are in the midst of a giant purge of the clutter that amasses when life proceeds in the same location for over a decade. We've been through clothing, toys, games, and even photos. But today I came across this letter I wrote to a former friend with whom I had lost touch a couple of years before Dad's death. It is both as heartwrenching and as true as I was the day I sat writing it and crying - as evidenced by the ink blots on the page from the tears that fell as I wrote, and which increase in number towards the end. 


Though I am not entirely sure why, I am compelled to write you again. With the passing of each day/week/month/ and year, I do grow more certain that you are gone from my life forever. Which brings me to the reason for this letter.

My beloved father is dead.

Without any sort of warning, I lost the first man I loved in this life.
He died exactly the way he would have wanted.
In fact, he had even said it many times.
The only part of his death that I can take issue with is the timing.
He was 62 years old, and by all accounts, heatlhy. 
He died alone, working on the tree farm. 
There was no gruesome accident, he simply fell down dead - "dropped dead," literally.
He made no attempt to call for help, his cell phone was still in its pocket.
His eyes were still open as he lay on the leaves in the cold rain. 
My sister's boyfriend found him, and stayed there with him in the pouring rain until help arrived.

Daddy was long gone before we ever realized anything was wrong. By the time he was found, he had probably been dead two or three hours. I am glad for Daddy that he was never forced to endure illness or loss of strength or be subjected to the torment of hospitalization. Those things would have robbed me of him just as surely as death has, though not as swiftly. But I am so heartbroken for myself, my mother, my sisters, our friends, but most especially our children. 

A loss like this should be felt deeply - 
I know that, I but didn't know that it would slice into my soul. 
I feel like an orphan.
I know how ridiculous that sounds. 
I am a grown woman. 
I have lived outside my parents' home for well more than half of my life. 

But my Daddy is gone.

There have been very few people in my life with whom I felt completely safe. 
I have come to realize I may never feel that way with a peer, but I always knew that I was safe with Daddy.

I cannot tell you how many people have said that they won't know who to turn to now that he is gone. Well, guess what? I don't know either. I'm obviously not even a good person to ask.
I have to face the fact that the only may who ever actually loved me unconditionally is gone.
DEAD.Most people can't even say the word, but I can.
My Daddy taught me to respect life and death.
And birth. And trees. And hard work. And a hundred-million other things.
I should make a list. I should start right now. Because part of what is absolutely killing me about this whole situation is that I now have a two and a half year old boy child who understood how special his Poppa was. And his Poppa loved him and was so proud of him and wanted so much to teach him so many things.

Now not only do I have to try to teach him as much of that as I can, I have to teach him about Poppa - because he own't get to know him himself. 
He is too young to remember him. He'll only know what he is told.

I had to learn from our attorney that Poppa planned to teach his only grandson to fish. This year, Dad had bought a new rifle and his first hunting license. He enjoyed the men in the hunting club at the farm so much that he built a shooting house and went with them. When we had to choose pallbearers, we asked the hunters to do the honors. As it turned out, we didn't need their services after all. My sisters and I, with the help of our husbands/boyfriend, carried Dad's casket ourselves. I truly am almost as proud of us for the non-traditional way we handled the death events as I am for the non-traditional ways we have all given birth. 

I think Daddy would be, too. 

Mom flew one of Dad's few surviving Vietnam buddies across the country to play Taps on his bugle as Daddy was buried. Not until he played the first note did I realize that I have never before attended a funeral where Taps was played. There were so many military funerals for the day we buried Daddy that the Army could not send two men to fold the flag. I'm glad. The men who held Daddy's flag high as the bugle played knew my Daddy.

And loved him. 

Jim H.

Wow. It has been a long time since I had an email like this. Thank you so, so much for writing. I never tire of hearing stories of Daddy. I cannot wait to share it with Mom!
-------------------------------------------------

February 28, 2016

I just happened across your blog and other information about your Dad while I was browsing the Internet reliving memories of my days at Mississippi State.  I was a bartender/waiter at Len Lew's in 1973/1974, and Melvin and Jan could not have been kinder to me.  They were living out back, and I can remember you as well.  Those were some of the happiest times of my life.

I last saw your Dad as I was driving through Starkville -- I think it was around 1980 -- and happened to stop by a package store where he worked.  Blew me away to run into him.

One quick story: I was waiting tables at Len Lew's one evening when a guy had an argument with the lady who was with him and tossed a beer on her.  I told him he had to leave, nervously standing my ground and escorting him out, and he gave me the "you apparently don't know who I am" spiel.  Turned out it was a honcho in the English Dept. at MSU, a longtime good customer and a friend of your folks.  I figured my job was over, but Melvin stood with me, told me I did the right thing and, I believe, talked the guy down about retaliation.

I just felt compelled to write you and let you know a little more about your parents' impact on others' lives, which even they probably were not aware of.  I'm a government retiree living near Fredericksburg, Virginia, these days and don't get back to Mississippi very much.  I'm so glad I came across your blog.  Please give my best to your Mom -- who likely won't remember me -- it was "Jimmy" Holley back then.

Three years.

I can hardly believe it, but it has been three years today since Dad died. I still miss him so much it hurts, and it is comforting to be reminded that I am not alone in that.

I woke up this morning to this message from Aunt Sue,

I hope all you young ladies have a good day today FILLED with wonderful memories of a wonderful husband, dad, and friend. I love you all very much.

My response to that was simply, "Always."

Dad wasn't perfect, but he was perfectly wonderful to us.

Pop!

As I sat at the computer listening closely to an interview on NPR, a shot was fired in my living room.

Yes, Poppa's Grandson has a cap gun. No, he is not supposed to fire it inside.

Still, all I could do was shake my head and smile. Poppa would have loved it. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that a fresh supply of caps would have mysteriously appeared every time Poppa visited.

10 Great Places to Learn U.S. Military History

As we approach Veteran's Day, I thought it would be appropriate to share this list, as published in USA Today on November 8, 2002. The article was in a box of memorabilia I inherited on my most recent trip to Starkville. Dad loved very little more than to stop at a historical marker, so I can only imagine that he intended to visit these ten places one day.

The National WWII Museum, New Orleans (Formerly The National D-Day Museum  
West Point Museum, West Point, N.Y.
U.S. Air Force Museum, Dayton, Ohio
Museum of the Confederacy, Richmond, Va.
The Patton Museum of Cavalry & Armor, Fort Knox, Ky.
U.S. Navy Museum, Washington, D.C.
Museum of Naval Aviation, Pensacola, Fla.
Airborne & Special Operations Museum, Fayetteville, N.C.
First Division Museum at Cantigny, Wheaton, Ill.
U.S. Army Chaplain Museum, Fort Jackson, S.C.

Game Play.

Melvin loved playing a few games. He & the grandchildren got quite a kick from Connect Four.

He was always up for a quick game of Rook......

Dominos brought out what can only be described as a passion, as he would get an evil glint in his eye while "rattling them bones."

But the game that he may have enjoyed most was Acquire. I had never even heard of this game before being introduced to it in the Rhodes family. Melvin was a master, an won almost every time. Even when you were certain that you had finally succeeded, that you had beat him, he still pulled it out by a few dollars. And he loved it. He didn't gloat, but it was obvious that he never had any doubt. We haven't played at Casa Rhodes since he died. It will be very strange when we finally do.

Birthday Card from Dad

Last week, I was looking through a box of keepsakes when I came across a birthday card Dad sent to me a few years ago. I didn't remember it from the front, but as soon as I opened it up, I could hear his laugh and see his smile.

He meant every word.

Miss you, Dad. Birthdays (and other days) aren't the same without your warped sense of humor.

Brooke

Melvin......

We miss you! It's coming up on the Anniversary of the INDY 500 Trip. We
will always cherish those memories with you and were so thrilled that you
wanted to spend the weekend with us!
You are always in our thoughts! I miss your advise and "our talks". You
treated me like a daughter!

Much Love,
Brooke

Jim

Unique! That would probably be the best one-word description of Mel. Let's hope he's happy where he is now, as we all miss his presence, humor, jokes, loyalty, and presence. If we ever need an advocate in heaven, I know who my choice will be!

Alex

I remember him playng songs on the Jukebox at the Len Lew so I could record them.

I remember one summer, he paid a local fisherman to take me out fishing, so I could catch different species of fish, for a Boy Scout Merit Badge- the other guy caught all types of fish, but I couln't get a strike/bite.

I rember how he let us eat or drink whatever we wanted at the Len Lew when we stayed there.

I remember the summer he taught me how to string a barb wire fence-

and I got a huge water blister on my ear.

He also taught me about Rhuli-gel for mosquito and chigger bites.

I remember the pond by the Len Lew- it had catfish that were "trained" to eat only hot dogs.

That pond was full of turtles that would bite at your bobber-

he bet me a nickle that I could not catch one.

Don't think he ever gave me that nickle though...

I know he paid a guy at the Len Lew to teach me to play PinBall, and pool.

I remember a puzzle he had- clear plastic rods, put together in a cube.

He told me that he had never been able to take it apart.

It was in a pile of pieces when I left that week-

got it apart, but never back together.

He was surprised when I was happy reading his copies of "Mother Earth News."

Speaking of reading- he intoduced me to one of his favorites- Nero Wolfe. Still love reading his mysteries when I have time,

and have always thought of Melvin when I did.

I remember being the ring boy at their wedding,

and Charlie was best man.

I held that stupid pillow with a ring on it through the entire ceremony.

When I asked what happened after the ceremony-

Charlie took HIS wedding ring off the pillow.

He had kept the real ring, and had me carry the imposter-

they were afraid I would drop her ring.

I remember the Yellow Squash Yuck Bug.

Mirror image.

It was not uncommon for Dad to emphasize his point with a raised eyebrow. It is one of the expressions I miss most.

I, too, can (and often do) raise one brow while lowering the other. My expression mirrors Dad's: he raised his right eyebrow; I raise my left. I have tried to raise my right brow, but I cannot.

A few days ago, I gave my son the raised eyebrow. To my surprise, his right brow shot up in answer.

For an instant, I saw the reflection of his Poppa. Just as I mirrored my father, my son mirrors me.

Taking Chance.

Tonight, I was completely absorbed in a movie recently produced by HBO. Taking Chance is the actual account of an officer escorting the body of a Marine killed in action in Iraq back home to his parents. Despite the grim subject matter, it is a heartwarming story of respect and patriotism. I wanted to call Dad and discuss it immediately. Then I wondered if Dad would have watched it at all. He did not watch war movies. I think having seen the live-action version in person permanently colors your vision towards such things, and Dad was no exception.

But Taking Chance is not a war movie. It is remarkably a-political. It is not about the causes, only the ultimate consequences. And if he had watched it, Dad would have appreciated all the details. Even the ones that hurt me to watch. Dad would have appreciated the cleaning, preservation, and presentation of the personal effects and remains of the fallen. He would have told me far more details than I didn't know I didn't want to know about the process. He would have reminded me, again, that too much of our knowledge of forensics has been learned from wartime casualties.

I share this because Dad would have most appreciated the respect and dignity with which the fallen soldiers are treated in this movie. Considering the less than warm reception veterans of Vietnam often received upon their re-entry into society, it would be easy to understand if Dad did not want anything to do with the military, ever. That was not the path he chose. He was a proud member (and former president of the local chapter) of the Veterans of Foreign War. He was supportive of soldiers and his fellow veterans, regardless of the circumstances which led to their deployment.

I may not always understand or support our country's military actions, but I do know that each and every service member who has ever fought to defend the flag of our nation is a hero.

Proverbial Wisdom

Despite my love of reading, I don't devour books the way Dad did. At least, not since I've had children. Still, I'm currently reading a series of books that has utterly consumed my attention. A few days ago, I ran across a Scottish proverb that really spoke to me.

It's a wise bairn that kens its father.

I had to smile when I read it, because I really did know my father. There have been a lot of occasions to wonder what Dad would think about a certain subject, or what he would do. A few times, I've thought my first instinct might not be right, but a quick double-check with someone else who knew Dad well confirms my original thought. And a few months ago, when I was struggling with a difficult decision, it was my husband who spurred me out of my quandary with a seemingly simple question, "What would your Dad do?"

And no, I might not have always agreed with Dad, and I might not choose to do what he would do... but I have a really good idea of what it would be.

I'm so glad Dad shared so much of himself with us. We are wise for it.

Parades, Pies, and Pipers.

When we lived in Starkville, I had heard of Mardi Gras. I thought it was something that only happened in New Orleans. I was wrong. Mardi Gras is a big deal here - all along the Gulf Coast, most definitely not just in New Orleans.  And we are now deep in Mardi Gras season. 

I don't think Dad ever went to any of the parades that roll through our little town, but he certainly enjoyed the spoils of our attendance. For those of you not familiar with the lingo that is now so familiar to us, let me explain a few things. Mardi Gras parades are done by societies or "krewes" who dress in elaborate costumes, ride amazing floats, and shower those lined along the parade route with "throws." In addition to the ubiquitous beads, "throws" can include anything from tiny plastic toys to enormous stuffed animals to candy and other edibles. Here in our area, Moon Pies are legendary. 

In years past, my daughters would gather up the Moon Pies they caught and proudly present them to their Poppa. Dad loved Moon Pies. He almost unfailingly made reference to "an RC cola" as the perfect accompaniment to them (though, not surprisingly, he usually actually ate them with a Coke). Last year, I wondered what we would do with the extra treats, only to discover that Poppa's grandson shares his love of the Moon Pie.  In fact, even the girls have come to enjoy them, especially given the flavor that has just debuted: Peanut Butter.

Peanut Butter was more than just a staple in Dad's diet-

it was a food group. I can't believe Dad died before the advent of the Peanut Butter Moon Pie. They would have earned a special place in Dad's heart. That is, if he ever got to try one. The kids aren't so generous with these - Poppa would have had to catch his own.

And another thing about our parades: there are bagpipers. Dad planned to learn to play the bagpipes one day, but he never did. Last year, I reached for my phone to dial Dad and let him hear the pipers as they passed us. The reality that I couldn't do that anymore was simply overwhelming - not just for me, but for all of the friends standing with me when it happened. The sound of those pipes tore through me much as the trumpet playing taps at Dad's funeral had. I thought then I might never enjoy hearing bagpipes again. 

Mercifully, I was wrong. This year, I could not only smile, but shout in support as the pipers passed. And just as they joined me in tears last year, my friends joined me smiling and shouting.  Dad's oldest grand-daughter noticed a woman among the pipers the other night, and she says she wants to play the bagpipes one day. Poppa would be so proud to have a piper.  

God will provide.

Dad was one of the greatest storytellers I have ever known. He told stories to share his history, to teach, and to entertain. Most of the time, a single story did all three. Though his stories were told as truths, some of them featured legendary characters, and were really more than stories - they were parables.

He had a whole collection of stories featuring one of his college roommates, Paul.

The lesson from these stories was always the same: God will provide.

The stories went something like this: From a young age, Paul was an accomplished preacher in his own right. Paul was also the son of a renowned, amazing preacher. The older preacher's stomping grounds included that most-unlikely location for a man of God - the city of New Orleans. Despite all-manner of obstacles, neither Paul nor his father ever seemed to worry or doubt. Regardless of how bleak the situation appeared, they simply proceeded doing the work of God, knowing that He would provided whatever it was that was required. And He always did.

Dad told a number of these stories, ranging from he and Paul having enough food to eat as starving college students, to a congregation losing its facility and almost not having a place to worship. Whatever the story, the ending was always the same - Paul kept going and didn't worry, because, "God will provide."

Fast forward to Dad's funeral. The legendary Paul preached the perfect service for his long-time friend. He shared his notes with me before he left the graveside, and I have found great comfort in his words, particularly his closing prayer:

Holy Father, creator of all that is,

whose Son is our redeemer

and whose Holy Spirit is our strength

- three in one -

comfort us in our loss.

Give us your strength as we deal with the days ahead.

Fill us with memories of happier times.

Remind us of childhood romps and school day challenges.

Remind us of hugs and smiles and encouragement.

Thank you for letting us have Melvin in our lives
for far too short a time.

Help us to be to someone else what he has been for us.

Amen

I hadn't heard from Paul in several weeks until today. One year ago today we buried Daddy. Three days ago we passed the first anniversary of Dad's death. My mother and I have both dreaded that anniversary for months. When it finally came, it wasn't nearly as bad as we thought it would be. Today I found out why.

You see, Paul was at it again. I received this from him :

I have been thinking about all of you this week. Our whole family remembered to pray for you every day during the holiday. We asked God to give you comfort, peace and good memories.

We had a wonderful holiday full of comfort, peace, and good memories.

God will provide.

An Extraordinary Year

My Christmas journal has several pages on which to record each year's Christmas festivities. In the last few years, I have used it mainly as a place to record a list of the cards I have sent and received. So, as I showed the book to a friend recently, I was taken aback to see what I wrote in 2000, the year I started the journal. 

"Our beloved 'Big Mama' (my maternal grandmother) had a devastating stroke in mid-April and died on July 6.

To quote Poppa in this year's Christmas letter, 'We've had some extraordinary years, all happy, but some not so much as others. This year has been one of the not-so-much-as others.'"

Poppa was right. This year was definitely one of the not-so-much-as-others, but we have lived each day of it surrounded by the love and support of our family and friends. Though we will certainly miss Poppa today, we plan to have a very Merry Christmas - just as he would want all of us to do!

Christmas Candy

A couple of weeks ago, I realized with horror that no one was going to be making any Martha Washington candy for me. I was disappointed, but I knew that we have Dad's recipe, and we could make them if I had to have them. I mentioned the lack of candies to a friend on the phone and one of the girls overheard me. From the look on my daughter's face, I knew we had to get busy making Martha Washingtons soon. But I still didn't do it. 

Then, my friend called to ask if she could help make the candy. We set a date to make Martha Washingtons. We gathered our supplies, including the tiny paper candy cups into which each candy ball is carefully placed. 

Marcus found a recipe for peanut butter balls dipped in chocolate, and we decided to make those, too. Dad did not usually make peanut butter balls, but he did have a nickname for them. 

Most people call them "Buckeyes", but not Dad. 

He called them "Rosalynn Carters." You see, if our traditional candies are "Martha Washingtons", and these are very similar size, shape, and outer coating, they must also be named for a First Lady...and since they are made of peanut butter, they must be named for the wife of the President who was a peanut farmer. 

Only Dad could find a way to work Presidential trivia into candy-making. 

Christmas in Nam

Thirty-nine years ago, Dad wrote one of his group letters (he used a stack of carbon paper to type several letters at once). One of his college roommates sent me his copy last week. I have seen some of Dad's letters from Vietnam, but this one was new to me. It is so full of what I think of as "typical Dad" that I had to share this with all of you.

Bien Hoa

12 Dec. 1969

Hello Everybody,

Well, only 13 shopping days till Christmas--for whatever that is worth to you. 

Christmas in Nam--what an experience.

Well, I hate (not really) to tell you, but if you don’t mind, please change the way you address letters to me. I’m now SP5 Rhodes--Specialist Five--same as buck sargeant--I was given a choice--be promoted in November as SP5 or wait till Dec and be made Sgt. And I would rather get higher pay a month early (same pay for both) and not be called Sarge.  I still wonder if it was worth going up to Quan Lon for last month---but as I didn’t get hit, it was.

That  blankety-blank Charlie---pulled a rocket attach on us this morning at 6:30---and blast it-- I had to get up---and I usually stay in the rack till 6:45. 

War-wise all has been exceptionally quiet---the Cav is only pulling defense all over the map now----but few guys are getting injured.

I caught a bum rap this morning----I had to go to the airport with the Chaplain to tell a man that his son died of Meningitis. We got there only about thirty minutes before the man’s plane left. He was going home on emergency leave to see his son. He took it quite well---I suspect he went into shock and somebody on that plane is going to have to do a lot of talking in the 22 hours before it reaches the world. 

Our office is decorated---and the holiday season is here. I wornder how many other guys over here are comparing this year with last---and feeling cynical.

Christmas in Nam

is getting all your presents in November,

is opening all your presents in November 

   (just kidding---Scout’s honor!)

is getting 14 Christmas cards---all from the same sorority,

is planning on an all day drunk,

is fearing the Vietnamese Air Force 

  will think Santa is a Trojan Horse,

is putting together a model Huey Cobra,

is dyeing your moustache red and green,

is putting an angel on top of a bamboo sprout,

is mailing out Army Christmas cards,

is seeing an ACAV with a colored bow on top,

is wondering if your gifts got home in time,

is know you’re not gonna get a stocking full of goodies,

is saying “Peace”

is wondering if you’ll get to see Bob Hope,

is “desiring” to see the dames in his troupe,

is eating in a decorated mess hall,

is hoping for a picture of your gal, and getting a note-book,

is eating your buddies’ fruit cake,

is reading a book on the battle of Bastegne

is hoping for a new Nero Wolfe mystery,

is writing your Draft Board, “Wish you were here,”

is getting chocolate covered raisins,

is getting mail twice a day,

is crossing off another day,

is saying, “Wait till next year!”,

is far, far, from home.

And even though we miss him every day, I'm certain Dad isn't crossing off days and feeling far, far from home this year. 

Oh, Christmas Tree...

I love Christmas lights. I don't hang a lot of lights on my own home, but I have loved seeing what other people do to their homes for years. Some of our family Christmas trips were as memorable for the lights we passed as for the destination. 

Our first Christmas here, I heard about some unusual lights - very large, round lights in a tree shape. I had never seen anything like these lights.  I drove by the house during the day to try to get a better look. The house was well back from the road, and the yard was heavily wooded. I couldn't see much. 

The next year, I took Mom & Dad to see the lights. Much to my husband's horror, Dad & I went back the next day and invited ourselves into the yard to get a better look. To our delight, we discovered that the trees appeared to be made of easily obtainable materials. 

Dad & I designed and made our own trees. They are so beautiful - in that over-the-top-multicolored-Christmas-tree sort of way. I haven't hung mine for the last couple of years, but I hung it tonight.

My son has made several trips outside just to look at it "one more time." I have a feeling it will be up every year from now on. 

Colorful?

One of the many games Dad played with kids had to do with color. As a child began learning the names of the colors, Dad would tease her. No matter what color the child identified, Dad would say it was another color. Mom says that he substituted specific colors (ie, he always said something red was blue, etc...), but none of us seem to know the code he used. Dad played this game for years. He told stories about one of my older cousins becoming convinced as a toddler that white was black and vice versa. (And though Dad never said who was responsible for having confused that particular child, I have my suspicions...)

But now I'm going to tell you the rest of the story...

When I was a teenager, Dad often asked for help selecting his clothes. Frequently, I would pick an outfit and lay it out on his bed. What man in a house full of women doesn't get a lot of fashion advice?  I never thought it was unusual.

Later, when we chose the colors to paint our first house, Dad didn't think the colors looked good together. We used the colors anyway, and the house looked great. Everyone agreed. It looked so good that Dad started making sure to get a second opinion before painting a house himself.  Still, I didn't think that was odd.

I thought Dad didn't pay attention to things like fashion and color. Really, it was more than that. As a child, I knew of distant cousins in my mom's family who were colorblind. I didn't know of any on Dad's side. Turns out, I really didn't have to look too far. 

Hindsight being 20/20, I realize that it wasn't that Dad didn't care about subtle color differences. He couldn't see them. He may never have been told he was colorblind, but he certainly had abnormal color vision.

Not long after Dad died, I asked our optometrist about color vision. She assured me that we have tested mine, and both of my daughters'. When we pulled the records, we saw that one of 

my daughters did fine on the color vision tests. But my other daughter scored exactly 50%.  It is almost unheard of for a girl to have abnormal color vision. My daughter was given a passing score because she got half of the answers correct, and she was very young when she was tested. 

We tested my daughter again. She scored 50%. We certainly can't say she doesn't know her numbers now. She has abnormal color vision. She is not the only one of Dad's descendants that does. 

It explains a family tendency to love bright, even fluorescent colors. Maybe it explains even more than that. I can only imagine the puns Dad would have come up with about the "colorful" members of our family. 

Certainly, it made him an even more colorful character. 

Trick or Treat?

Halloween is an event at my house. 

It is the favorite holiday of one of my sisters. 

But it really wasn't a big deal to Dad. 

In fact, a few years ago, he was out on the tree farm. He hadn't thought about it being Halloween, and he certainly hadn't thought about buying any candy. Besides, the farm is not exactly in the middle of a neighborhood, so he wasn't expecting any trick-or-treaters. For that matter, I don't think more than a half-dozen trick-or-treaters have ever shown up at Mom and Dad's house that is in a neighborhood. 

Suffice it to say, Dad was more than a little unprepared when costumed kids started knocking on his door expecting treats.

So, he passed out the only thing he had that seemed to fit the occasion - cans of Coke. He always had plenty of those.

A new memorial.

A few weeks after Dad died, we learned our town would celebrate its centennial by planting trees. It seemed like a fitting memorial for Dad, so I signed up immediately. Recently, we learned that though the trees have been planted, there is a delay in installing the medallions to mark them. Today, we found Dad's Sweet Bay Magnolia in our city park adjoining Mobile Bay. I could not have hoped for a more beautiful memorial.  

Mis-chee-vee-uhs Melvin.

Dad was more than a little mischievous.

Right down to his pronunciation of the word: [mis-chee-vee-uhs]. 

He was not above playing pranks on his children and/or grandchildren, or even using one of them as an accomplice.

Take for example, his favorite color. It does not come as a surprise to anyone who has known me very long that my favorite color is purple. Certainly, it was an easy guess for anyone seeing a little girl dressed in purple plastic clogs and purple plaid pants. So, Dad taught me to have people guess what his favorite color was. 

The answer, of course, was not just an ordinary color, but "Money Green". 

Another of his favorite pranks involved my dolls. As a three year old, I got twin baby dolls for Christmas - Jack & Jenny. I loved these dolls, and I carried them everywhere. Dad encouraged it. They had all sorts of accessories, including complicated, button-closure diapers. Dad loved nothing more than to direct me towards some unsuspecting childless adult (preferably the most timid person in the room) to "help me change" my dolls' diapers. 

You see, Jack & Jenny looked exactly the same - until you removed their diapers. They were anatomically correct.

Then, there are rice bags. Today, most newly married couples exit the church surrounded by bells, bubbles, rose petals, or bird seed. But once upon a time, they were showered with rice. For certain, special brides, Dad did not bother taking the painstakingly prepared tulle-wrapped bundles of rice provided at the wedding reception. 

Discreetly tucked inside Dad's jacket was his own bag of rice - a five pound bag - from which he would hurl whole handfuls of rice. For at least one really special bride, he ran up to wrap his arms around her in a bear hug - while simultaneously pouring rice down her dress. 

Another one of Dad's long-standing favorite stunts involved tiny water pistols. In the rain. Which doesn't make a lot of sense until you hear how he used them. Dad would secretly aim at the head of someone who was using an umbrella. Then, he would stand back and giggle as the person searched the underside of his or her umbrella looking for the leak.

When the person abandoned the search for the hole in the umbrella, he would shoot again.  

And again.

Dad understood that a great prank required preparation -  and patience. He was willing to go to great lengths for a laugh. And, if you were ever the victim of one of his shenanigans - know that he really liked you - he didn't waste the effort on those he didn't like. 

She's a "Band Geek" after all...

My youngest daughter has made fun of "band geeks" since before her sister joined the school band. She has been merciless. 

Just last week, she came home begging for permission to have her schedule changed so she could join band. We were shocked. I am thrilled, but still surprised.  I got busy and ordered a trumpet for her, and she got busy getting a new class schedule. I was so busy, in fact, that I forgot to tell Mom about this new development. 

Mom found out, of course, and yesterday, we finally got to discuss the whole situation.

What surprised me about our conversation was learning that Dad had been quite bothered by his second granddaughter's statements about "band geeks." Apparently, the way she went on and on about how no one in band is "cool" and how everyone in band is a "geek" hit a nerve with Dad. 

You see, Dad was a "band geek", too, once upon a time. I guess I'll have to check with my aunts and see if they know what instruments he played. 

I know he played the bass drum. There was a problem with it though - Dad was a scrawny kid. He always said that he had to wear suspenders because he was so thin that a belt would just pull his pants down. And bass drums are big, and heavy. So, Dad played the bass drum, but only if it wasn't windy - on those days, the bass drum played him. 

I hope Dad is getting a good laugh now at his granddaughter's expense. She is eating her words about the members of the band. 

Maybe one day soon she'll play Taps at her Poppa's grave - the only thing that would have pleased him more would have been for her to play Reveille at daybreak - and, of course, for him to have been here to hear her play and see her eat her words.  

He hated hospitals.

Dad hated hospitals. I do not mean that he strongly disliked them. He really despised hospitals. He felt they were breeding grounds for infections. 

He wasn't born in a hospital. He didn't die in a hospital. To my knowledge, he was never even a patient in one.

And he didn't like for his family members to spend any more time that was absolutely necessary in a hospital. At all.

Unfortunately, I haven't been as lucky as Dad was in avoiding hospital stays. During the last few years, I've had a couple of stays lasting a few days each. The first time, I was pregnant. Dad drove down to check on me. He visited me in the hospital, then went to take care of the girls, and let my husband come sit with me.

But the most recent time I was hospitalized, Dad came and sat with me. For hours. He sat in a chair at my bedside and read while I napped. He didn't scare the staff. In fact, he only asked appropriate questions about the medications and treatments when a nurse came to administer them. I was really proud of Daddy for handling it all so well. I couldn't believe it.

I was so proud of him that I was telling one of his sister's about it just after he died. Turns out, Dad was pretty pleased with himself, too. In one of his last conversations with his sister, he told her how far he had come in tolerating hospitals. 

I still don't think he would ever have come so far as to have been a good patient. 

Before we even knew for certain that Daddy was dead, I remember saying to Mom that it would be ok if Dad had died while he was working on the farm. 

He still hated hospitals too much to have to die in one.

Charles remembers the summer of '64

The only time I met your dad was when my Mom, Sister, and myself were traveling across country to spend the summer (a few weeks) in Nashville at my uncle's home in the area my Mom grew up in. We had stopped for a couple of days in Brandon, MS to visit relatives. 

   So much for a brief history, let me share about your Dad.

 

    I am not sure, but I think the year I met your dad was in the summer of 1964.  It was roughly 62 or 64, my sister would know/remember better than me.  I was an antsy, sports loving kid, so of course much of visiting relatives at  10 or 12 is a bit boring.  Your Dad would have been what, 18 ish when I met him?  I remembered him as being a really neat guy and someone I looked up to.  I have only fired a gun twice in my life.  Your Dad was the first who tried to teach me to shoot a .22 riifle shooting at tin cans off a fence out back behind the Hog area.  I remember that I didn’t hit anything, the target or otherwise but was amazed at how good a shot your Dad was.  After that he drove me into Jackson with him to go to a Hog auction.  I remember sitting up in the stands with him and him telling me what was going on and being amazed at how fast the auctioneer spoke and not really grasping the whole concept of everything. Well, needless to say the time I spent with your father was quite an experience.

 

I guess one measure of impact is how much experiences stay with us.  Of that trip that summer, the one experience - person wise -  that has stood out through the years was meeting and doing things with cousin Melvin.  For years I wanted to contact him and a problem was that since we were visiting the Browns, I always thought his last name was Brown as well.  It wasn’t until a couple of years ago that my cousin told me Melvin’s last name was Rhodes.  I’m very sad that I didn’t put more effort into tracking him down then so I could have made contact.  I would have loved to have spoken with him again after all the years.  

What I can share with you, bottom line is this, for him to have made that much of an impression on a young kid on a summer vacation I think speaks of the type of person your father was.  A very good person.

Cindy. (Or..... Melvin to the rescue!)

Back in 2004, with Hurricane Ivan bearing down on Fairhope, Melvin made a flying trip to the Columbus, MS, Lowe's to fill his truck up with plywood (which was completely sold out here on the coast) and supplies, and headed south to help us secure our home. Our dear friend, Cindy, also needed some assistance, so we threw our needs together and worked on both houses as a group. At the end of the long day, Melvin basically told us that we could stay and ride it out if we wanted to, but the children were heading north with him. So, we loaded up the girls and they rode home in the truck with him. Early the next morning, when Ivan was at it's strongest and bearing down on the Alabama coast, we gave in and evacuated as well. But, both houses survived just fine, even though the eye passed directly over Fairhope.

Well, that day formed a tight bond between her & Melvin. They just instantly loved each other, and kept up with each other all the time. Cindy was on the way to Birmingham to spend Christmas with her family when we called to tell her that Melvin had died. She was as devastated as anyone, I think. She left her family's Christmas, and drove to Starkville for the funeral. And, she did exactly what Melvin would have wanted - she came in jeans, because otherwise he would not have known it was her.

She found an email from a home-repair issue, and has shared it.

From Cindy:

Here's one of the conversations via email with your Dad. He was never short on words and always made time to help.

Dearest Melvin,

I'm sure you remember being our hero and assisting us with boarding up our homes. One of the many things I asked for advice on was the rotting around the bottoms of our doors . I remembered you saying to cut away the rotten area
and replace. Well, I have removed the rotten pieces. I need further advice on replacement of the wood, where to get, etc. Hope you are doing well! Thanks in advance!!!

Melvin's response:

Cindy, you need to go by Lowe's or building store and buy a stick of Brickmold molding. That is the outside-most piece that goes up against the brick and just cut a piece of it to fit as needed. I normally replace the door frame part first, and then cut the brick mold to be about a foot above the other piece. That gives it room to give strength to the ddor frame patch. The building supply store should have a piece of the door frame board and it can be cut to fit. The tricky part is to get it looking right with the rest of the part above. To do that, I use shims (about a dollar or two for a pack. They are are wedges that you can slide in the big end on one, and then slide in the little end on the next one in order to get a flat piece just the right thickness to hold it into place.

I have also been known to use a prybar to hold it just right for nailing and then letting the brickmold hold it solidly into place. The door frame will have to be cut at at angle at the bottom and slid into place. A good dose of construction adhesive (Liquid Nails or my favortie, F_26, will lock everything together. Then you prime really well, caulk after priming, and then one or two good coats of paint. I cheat a lot, whenever I replace a door frame, I save all of the parts and use them for the next repairs until I run out. That door frame part may run $30, to buy, but without a good table saw and really good lumber, it is hard to make. I would rather buy. The metal door threshold will probably have some staples holding the frame together, u just take a chisel or plyers and jerk them out, clean the bottom and then slide in the door frame part. I hope you saved the pieces that you took out, if so, use them for a pattern. When you get through with this one, go repaint all of the other ones on the house to keep from having to do them. It looks like you have done a lot of the work, I usually spend about 30 or 45 minutes to do all of it, but then, I do a lot of them, and keep everything on the truck. If I write a letter and do the work, you would expect a bill of about 150 for it if I was in a good mood and a friend, I put the screws to a guy last week who demanded it be done in 105 index weather with it having to be done one afternoow with the sun on me. If you have a question while you are doing it, just call me. Good luck, hope all are well.

Mother, currently 95 and less that three weeks from 96, is having problems accepting that her 23 year old cat has stopped eating and is about to die. Kinda hard to explain old age and death to a person of her age that just doesn't think you took the cat to the right Vet. Wish me luck.

Melvin

(I have to admit that it had not really occurred to me that someone might have an email from Dad that she would be willing to share. I've yet to make it all the way through this one without getting choked up, because it is just so Dad. My favorite lines are his mention of "F-26" and his discussion of Granny's cat. Dad's love of F-26 and his relationship with cats deserve to be posts of their own...I'll add them to the list of topics I have still to cover. tlm)

Turkey, Dressing, Archery.......

For Thanksgiving 2004, the Rhodes clan spent a couple of days at the tree farm. After batting around several ideas for a camp house at the farm, Melvin acquired an older mobile home and had recently completed a major overhaul of its interior. He was very proud of how it had turned out, and he wanted to move the holiday activities out there so that the family could utilize it as a group for the first time. I also think that he knew that the only way to get me out there was to take the food there.

Melvin had recently bought a bow, and had a shooting area set up so that everyone could try out their skills. I had never touched a bow & arrow before, and Melvin had very little reason to think that I would perform very well in the arena, as I have never had any interest in athletics, hunting, guns, etc. But, I stepped up to take a turn, and after the proper instruction from Melvin, took aim and let the arrow fly. I wish that I had a photo of the look of absolute shock on Melvin's face when the arrow not only landed in the target circle, but was placed very well in the target. Assuming that I had just gotten lucky, he wanted me to do it again. This time, I got even closer to the bullseye. He announced that I obviously had a natural gift for archery. I shot many arrows that afternoon. The next morning, my entire forearm was black & blue from bruising due to the bow string hitting it.

While we were there for the weekend, we learned of the sudden death of acclaimed Mississippi writer, Larry Brown. He had suffered a sudden heart attack at his home near Oxford. I had been a fan from the beginning of his writing career, and have signed copies of all of his books, so I was very shocked by his passing. Now, it seems very strange that three years later Melvin would also die of a sudden heart attack not 200 yards from where I was standing when I learned of Larry's death.

Marcus

Cars only blow-up in movies...

Dad gave us a lot of advice about cars. How to drive them, how to crash them if you had to, and how to repair them. And he always shook his head at scenes with cars that crashed and burst into flames on screen. He said that only happened in the movies

Well, that may be true, most of the time. But not always. Not when it is my car, at least.

Dad dabbled in used car sales from time to time. The peak of his car sales coincided with my coming-of-age as a driver. Most people fantasize about their first car. I had so many first cars I can't even remember them all. There was a step-side Ford pick-up, and a gorgeous purple '53 Chevrolet (we called it a "Ziggy car" because it was rounded like the cartoon character) with a tube-type radio that still worked, and several others that for one reason or another were bought and sold before I ever got my license.

But then, there was my real first car - a white, 1979 Chrysler Cordoba. I hated (and dearly loved) that car. Dad and I had a deal: if I made a certain score on a certain standardized college entrance exam, he would buy me a new car. Well, I blew it. I missed the magic score by one point. When I found out my score, I lost it altogether right there in the guidance counselor's office. Never mind that the score was high enough for college, I wasn't getting a new car. I was inconsolable. I cried all the way back to my dorm. Then, I called Dad. I was sobbing by the time I told him my score - and he couldn't stop laughing. You see, he explained, he was always going to buy me a new car, but he wanted me to have a goal - he wanted me to try my best. So he had picked a number he thought I didn't have a chance of making - as motivation. I was furious for about 10 seconds, and then I realized I was getting a new car.

Dad took his time finding the perfect car, and just before my senior year, he bought it. It was beautiful, it was perfect, it was half the size of my Cordoba. The only repair it needed was a new headliner. So, I followed behind the car from Dad's Tire Shop to Columbus, to a rather seedy-looking shop that was supposed to do a good job - when they came to work at all. No one answered the door that day at the shop. I was not about to leave my precious car there unattended. One of Dad's all-time favorite "Grease Monkeys" had driven the car to Columbus, and now we started our caravan home. Not long after we got onto the highway, the car started overheating. He slowed down, rolled down the windows, and turned on the heater. The car continued overheating. We pulled off the highway. Dad's mechanic took a look under the hood, and we decided to leave the car on the side of the road and go get what we needed to tow it back to town.

I saw Dad come out the front doors of the shop as we pulled into the turn lane. Dad was shaking his head. I was out of the truck before it was in park.

"Daddy, we've got a problem."

"Yeah, we do."

"No, Daddy. Listen. The guys didn't answer the door at the upholstery shop, and I was just going to take it back some other time, but the car started to overheat, and we tried everything we knew to do, and we looked under the hood, but we decided just to leave it on the side of the road..."

"I know."

"Huh? Daddy, how could you know?"

"Tiff, if you didn't like the car, why didn't you just tell me?" By this point, he was struggling to maintain his composure.

"Daddy?! What are you talking about? I love that car."

"Well, Girl, I've got some bad news." Dad proceeded to break the news to me that moments (possibly even seconds - I've always wondered if we would have seen it if we looked back) after we pulled away from the car - it burst into flames. Burned up. To a crisp. Toast. The Highway Patrol was able to read most of the VIN, and they contacted the manufacturer of the car - in Detroit (DEE-troit to hear Dad say it). They provided the original purchaser's name, and the highway patrol was able to reach the original owner's son - who happened to be the friend from whom Dad had just bought the car. Dad's friend provided the officer with Dad's phone number, and the officer informed Dad of the events which transpired after I left the car. And, I might add, all of this took place in well less than 20 minutes. (Remember, this was 1989 - they did all of this without the internet, or even cell phones!)

To add insult to my injury, my Foreign Language teacher was driving by and took pictures of my burning car (she didn't know it was mine at the time) which ran on the news that night and maybe even in the paper the next day.

I couldn't believe it. Dad couldn't either. He had searched for and found the perfect car, and it was gone. And he couldn't believe that we didn't notice that the car was about to be engulfed in flames before we left it. He was fishing for an explanation for what had happened - grasping at straws, really. He asked if there was any possibility that someone had been smoking in the car and that this whole fiasco was the result of a carelessly discarded cigarette. I was indignant. I think I even raised my voice when I explained that no - no one had been smoking, and for that matter there was emergency phone money in the ashtray, and if I had known that the car was about to burn up, I would not have left those two quarters!

End of discussion. Dad was convinced. He knew it was the truth. I would not have left money (even fifty cents) in the car unless I intended to be back for it.

And, though we'll never know now, I suspect that Dad was the one who put the two quarters there in the first place - just in case.