My Father's Eulogy

[DeCav]

Well this seems to be the final resting place (I suppose the pun is intended) for the eulogies that I write. This one was a bit stunted as I was under a lot of pressure from a sibling to keep it very very short. Also, even though I started on it 3 days early, a lack of sleep and a good amount of writer's block seriously chopped me off at the knees. Perhaps I'll write a proper one some day.


Good morning.

I’ll start this off with a funny observation. Last Wednesday marked the end of a story. One that began harmlessly enough but a story that quickly unfolded into a long, tangled, often forgotten tale. They say every person dies two deaths. The day their soul leaves their living body and the day that your name is mentioned for the last time ever by any living soul on earth. Well my dad will apparently die 3 deaths.

Because About 30 years ago, one of the Stubbs’ boys woke up on a random Monday morning and decided not to go to work or even bother calling in. The next morning he decided to make it a two-fer. Again, he wasn’t calling them…and he was doing a magnificent job of not answering their calls or opening their emails.

The third morning, he couldn’t apparently be bothered to concoct what would have certainly had to have been a complicated explanation for why he’d disappeared for two days without a trace and so took a 3rd day off to get his story straight.

At this point, Bill’s progeny did what every Stubbs boy shows a remarkable aptitude and penchant for, which is that he vigorously employed the Stubbs’ philosophy that…hey, once you’re already late, it’s not like you can be “more late”, right?

By the following Sunday night, Bill’s son had realized his mistake, his failure in perception. He learned an extremely potent and oft-forgotten lesson in life as he had become alarmingly aware of the fact that he was now, indeed, “more late”.

The following Monday morning, with what must have taken an iron strength of will coupled with the Stubbs’ spirit of “never say die!”, he walked meekly back into work and told his boss that his dad, Bill Stubbs had died.

“What are you going to tell your boss when dad really does die??...hey, I’ll need all of next week off. My dad died again?”, he was asked later by one of his brothers.

Somehow, his boss bought the whole story of my dad’s early demise and how the son had been swept away in the tragedy and grief of it all to the point where he was just too emotionally and cognitively incapable of alerting his company, checking his phone messages, or reading and replying to the desperate emails being sent to his work address that might as well have been messages in a bottle.

So this morning, I can put a period on the end of a harmless and rarely remembered rumor that my father has passed away. I can say now say with the confidence and honest conviction that it would take to swing across the pits of Hell on a rotten vine and spit in the Devil’s eye that my father really has died.

My dad and all his kids have had a flair for getting ourselves knee-deep in dung and managing to find a nearby chandelier to swing away on, or to make up one if there wasn’t one handy and that situation proved no different. As if to prove my point, a couple of months later, this same employee mentioned to his boss that he had plans to visit his dad. His boss cleverly said, "I thought he died."

The employee recovered without missing a beat..."I'm talking about my stepdad."

I suppose the first thing I’d point out about my dad. He was a city guy. He was born in Columbia, SC to my grandparents who were also city folk of course and you can see in old photos of my father’s ancestors that he was the product of a long line of people that really enjoyed life. There is undeniable silliness and pursuit of the absurd joys in life that are captured in photos of my father’s parents and grandparents.

There were no stern joyless poses or forced, awkward smiles. There are pictures of good friends fishing from a canoe whose gunnel is lined with empty wine bottles, bottles only prevented from spilling over the side of the boat by the fact that the boat was actually sitting on dry land beside the pond and not in it. There is a picture I think of a great-grandfather posing as he lines up for a golf swing. The object to be stuck is indeed a golf ball but the club of choice is actually the downspout of a rain gutter.

I mention my father’s origins because I think it has something to do with his distinctive style and that flare of his that so many people noticed. He could be gregarious and flashy and had a temper but his sense of humor and cutting wit along with his friendly nature and deep compassion meant that he seldom met a stranger and rarely made enemies if ever. My dad always demonstrated to us that what really matters about a person is what is on the inside.

He had a wide world view and the picture of tolerance and acceptance that he modeled for his children was above reproach. I saw anger in my dad’s face from time to time. Sometimes it could be pure rage or calculation but I never saw hate on my dad’s face nor did I hear it in his words ever.

My father expertly demonstrated how to live an eccentric life and walk an unorthodox path but to do it with no hate or enmity ever in his heart neither for a single individual nor any group of people. I know he had this spark of divinity in him and passed it on to his four children because for all of our own bumps and bruises, bad decisions, broken hearts, and scorched earth we sometimes leave behind…like my dad, we meant no harm or malice.

I didn’t know my little brother, Bomar, as I do now until after he passed in 2019. Later the night of my brother's memorial, I along with Bo’s son Stephen Zachary, met Bo's best friend Lloyd in the hotel room he'd rented so he could be there for his best friend's funeral and spent about 6 hours with my two older brothers in tow listening to all of Bo's greatest stories never told.

It was an extremely healing moment for me because my little Brother was redeemed overnight and any resentments I’d held onto dropped away and I realized that my father’s youngest son really was one of the good guys. Bo was friendly and charming, funny and well-meaning. Just like my dad. My little brother was homeless when he passed away but among the largest number of signatures and comments in the memorial book from his service were members from the mission that he frequented when he had nowhere else to go.

I think maybe half of the people who attended my brother’s funeral were new friends he’d made late in life after the party was done. Genuine comments like, “Bo was a really great guy to play cards with!”, and "Bo was a great friend with a wonderful sense of humor and amazing stories about his life."

Bo still had my dad’s personality, down to his core. For all his faults, it occurred to me too late that I'd missed out on having a really good friend in life. I also missed some great opportunities to spend time with my dad. A lot of Bo’s friends didn’t get a chance to get to know my dad because by the time Bo was off the porch and running, my mom and dad were divorced and my father was a bit more removed from the scene than he was before.

I can say it’s more likely than not that, like hanging out with Bo, if you didn’t get a chance to hang out with my dad, it’s an experience you’d talley as missed. And if you ever wondered where Bo got his remarkable gift for finding vital and loyal friends and keeping them close, well that’s what my dad did best I think. He taught us in many ways how you SHOULD treat people, the spirit you should approach each person within your life, and the fairness and goodwill we should show all our neighbors.

When we were very young my parents took us to church every Sunday. As we got older, we went to church less and less often until we became that Simpson-type family that made it for Christmas Eve Service and Easter Sunday, Palm Sunday too if we were feeling ambitious that year.

I seem to recall that it was at about this time that the congregation decided to take up a private collection for Pastor D. Murray Shull and his wife for an all-expense paid vacation to Hawaii.

Their last decision was how to surprise our Pastor with the gift. There was the conventional way. And then there was Bill Stubbs’ way. I don’t know who dreamed up the idea but somehow the schemers thought that my dad would be able to brilliantly pull off a candid camera moment by playing a character that was so tangent to my father’s own personality and daring that if you knew my dad at all, you’d question whether he was playing a character or not.

Given my family’s absentee record at church, the planners figured that the stage was set for my father’s semi-annual appearance out of nowhere, like a familial Halley’s Comet that touches base with the inner solar system from time to time.

One Sunday, Mrs. Stubbs and her four children sat in the congregation watching Pastor Shull deliver yet another sermon to a flock that was absent one sheep….his old golfing and drinking buddy, Bill Stubbs.

The door, stage right, is thrown open and my dad emerges from the opening and happily greets our pastor with a wave.

Our pastor is wearing a white robe with green and gold highlights and a magnificent green and gold scarf to match and his minister’s collar.
My mom and my brothers are wearing our Sunday best, as we sit in the crowd watching.

My father is wearing flip-flops over black dress socks. He is wearing baggy Bermuda shorts and his bare, radiant, white legs are blinding to look at. He has a loud and colorful Hawaiian-style shirt on and he’s wearing sunglasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Around his neck is a giant strap with a large camera swinging from it. He casually begins to walk toward the Pastor.

Our Pastor turns to look at him with wide, puzzled eyes and just says, “Bill???” with an urgency you might have if you’d just met someone who’d lost his mind. My father walked up to him, probably snapping shots of the Pastor.

As he ignored the pleas of our Pastor to please stop this nonsense, my dad started talking about what a great friend Murray had always been to him. And he told my Pastor how warm and sincerely the whole church appreciated his honest and saintly work. He told our Pastor that we were all so grateful to Murray that the church bought him and his wife a vacation to Hawaii.

On one Christmas Eve service, I remember my dad sheepishly walking by our Pastor as we entered the sanctuary. My dad had his eyes cast down a bit and Murray teasingly murmured, "Great to have you join us this year Bill." I remember sensing my father's awkwardness and feeling a bit of shame myself.


But on that Sunday, years later, my father had brazenly interrupted our church's most sacred hour wearing a ridiculously foolish outfit that literally turned our Pastor's face a bright red color...not a color of embarrassment but one I could only describe as anger.

When my dad broke character and poured his heart out to his friend and Pastor and handed him an envelope with an all-expense paid vacation in it, in front of my father and the whole congregation…it was our Pastor who looked a little meek and humbled and not my dad. It was the Pastor of my church who was second-guessing his actions and maybe scolding himself as the congregation erupted in applause for him.

My dad got to play the fool for a brief moment before becoming the hero. I was always very honored that of all the members of the church who could have been selected to present this magnificent gift, it wasn’t the most pious member. It wasn't the oldest member. It wasn’t the richest member. It wasn’t the member with the best attendance or maybe even the most popular member.

They chose my dad and he was happy to do it because my dad was happy to give the gift of joy and happiness to everyone. I believe that my father died a Christian and I believe he was saved. I don’t believe these things because it’s comforting to say and not because he ever proclaimed to be saved because he did not. My dad, for all his sense of showmanship and expertise, was in his heart, I believe, a humbled man and sympathetic to the shortcomings that we all endure. He claimed many times that he believed in walking as close to God as he could but he never claimed that he managed it well. When I'd basically announced that I was cutting ties with my youngest brother and could not suffer his presence any longer, it was my dad who took me for a ride one night and gently tried to change my heart of stone. I remember him saying, "You can choose your friends but you can't choose your family."

I was resolute. I kept my arms folded and told my father that I just couldn't do it anymore. Bo had burned every bridge there was to burn with me...sympathy was his currency and I could just not cash anymore of his checks. My dad hung his head and just said, "Well that's not what Jesus would do son. I won't lie and say that I'm not a little disappointed. My father must have had deep sympathy for Bo because I think he saw in Bo a lot of himself. Both my father and my little brother got a lot of grief for grievous mistakes and lapses of judgment. They were both loved and scorned by a lot of people in their lives. And like rock stars almost, it was great to be part of the show or be in the audience when you could. Not so much to be a roadie or agent who had to clean up the mess backstage. But we all wanted to be rock stars like my dad.

Probably my father’s most significant contribution to his family and to his children was his love of music. He had a massive record collection and always had an expensive system to play it on. I remember the night he brought home our first 8-track player. I remember wondering why the Hell anyone would suffer having a song interrupted so it could switch tracks. I remember being scolded for touching his music system and for good reason...anything his boys touched seemed to die a quick death.

He had a collection of banjos and an electric guitar. He practiced every night and even bought my mom an autoharp so she could play an instrument too. He bought me and my brothers whatever music records we were interested in. When he gave me an old record player he took me to Rose's shopping center and let me pick out my first record album ever. Kenny Roger's The Gambler. He bought Pete any KISS or Van Halen album they asked for and took us to any concerts we asked about. When Pete took an interest in KISS in the late 70’s, my dad took Pete and Jud to see them. When they asked my dad about seeing Van Halen in 1982, I was only in the 4th grade but my dad took the whole family of six to that show.

One Christmas morning, my dad put a cassette in Jud's stocking. A new release by a then little known player named Stevie Ray Vaughan. My brother, Jud glanced at it and threw it in his pile of other unwrapped gifts. My dad glanced over at him and commented, "I bought that for you but if you give it a listen and don't like it, I'd like to have it if it's ok. An hour later after Jud had played with and inspected every gift he had that morning, he found himself in his room with that post-euphoric malaise that sets in for every kid on Christmas day when they've squeezed just about every bit of excitement and magic that they can out of the morning like juicing an orange until it's all but bone dry. Jud noticed the SRV cassette and threw it in his stereo for a goof. Less than a minute later, he came bounding down the stairs and told our oldest brother Pete, "OMG brother, you HAVE to come here this!"

From that day on, our whole family were devoted SRV fans and when the guitarist came to the Spartanburg Memorial Auditorium, my father did not hesitate to buy the whole family tickets to the show.

When Pete wanted to learn to play the bass in the school band, my dad bought him a stand-up bass. After Pete discover KISS, he announced he wanted to be like Peter Criss and play drums so my dad bought him his first drumset. I also stated I wanted to play drums if Pete was going to play drums. I think I got a paper Bugs Bunny drumset with an electric carrot microphone while Pete gold an orange, metallic flake real drum set.

When Pete mastered his first drum set, my dad bought him a fancier set. Then Jud startled noodling around on my dad’s old Gibson Melody Maker and got good enough on it that my dad bought him a new Kramer electric guitar. Then Bo learned drums and finally, I decided when I was about 17 that I’d put off learning an instrument long enough.

Through it all, my dad was always there and always supportive of us and all of our pursuits, musical or otherwise and he was always there to the rescue when we were in need. Whether he was lining up his boot for a kick in the ass of an older kid who’d managed to pin Pete face down in our front yard during a fight or quietly whispering something frightening to some kids who’d been throwing rocks at me from behind, he was always ready to step up when his kids were in a bind.

He and my mom were married for more than twenty years and they were in love with each other long after they divorced. Til the day she died my mom loved my dad. And till the day he died, he loved her. He was, I think, just as devastated as the rest of us when my mom passed late one night from a heart attack. I remember that time as being my father’s finest hour. Truly when his family needed him most, he was there. He took on the duties of preparing my mom’s funeral and carrying his four children through the ordeal of her death as if they were still married.

My dad was a Superman through that difficult period.
And was the father I’ll always remember. I’m hoping and expecting, given all the lives he’s touched, that he’ll have a long 3rd life indeed.

[cavaliereagle]

Very nice DeCav. I think you did a wonderful job.

[DeCav]

Very nice DeCav. I think you did a wonderful job.

Thank you very much friend.