He lived nearly all his life in the small town of Damascus, Virginia, also known as the Friendliest Town on the [Appalachian] Trail. 64 of those years were with his wife, known as Nana to many. He was the last of 12 children.
Describing Big Daddy is not an easy task. At his funeral service, all four of his grandchildren paid tribute to him, each differently, all appropriately. He loved to kiss the ladies and holler at the men. He was generous with his grandkids and great-grandkids. His hugs gave the term "bear hug" a new meaning. He had his sayings, like "always tell the truth and you'll never have to remember what you said." His devotion to his town was evident in the long list of service, not the least of which was a 44 year stint as the town Santa.
Over the last few days, I have been struck once again not only by how the loss of such a man touches his family, but also how it changes a community. Especially a small one. I remember that feeling when my grandfathers passed away. It's as if the lens is pulled back for a short time.
There is something noble, good, and now fleeting about truly living in a place. Doing life with a community. Being a part of something bigger than yourself. Knowing the longevity of building a life somewhere and sticking it out. What richness that breeds and I fear we are losing it.
I am thankful for Big Daddy's life and his care for our family.
I am thankful to have watched as a man lived and died in a community he knew and loved. He will not be soon forgotten.
And I am thankful that he is at rest after a long and full life.
His obituary is here.
