March 19, 1922

On March 19, 1922, Rose Harris gave birth to her fourth baby, Lloyd, a boy who would grow up to be, among other things, my daddy.  Rose and Jim were parents of Gladys, Jimmie, Lyle, Lloyd, and Betty June.

They lived those Depression years in a house down in the "holler" around Chattanooga, so poor that one day Jim sold Rose's piano and little-boy Lloyd stuck out his tongue at the men who came to pick it up.  Another day Jim plowed up Rose's flowers to make room to plant vegetables.  Jim smoked cigarettes and drove wild; when I knew Rose she wore socks and was sickly.  She had framed pictures of her children on the walls and under the glass of her coffee table.

All three boys served in the Navy during World War II, and Rose kept fringed satin Navy pillows they'd sent her on the divan--what they called sofas in Chattanooga.

When I was a little girl, I had the good fortune to live in a happy house. My parents loved each other and us so much that there was never a teeny tiny question mark.  There was no fighting--my daddy was clear about that from the start; he was as conflict-averse as I am, but a way nicer person overall.

I never heard him yell or use profanity.  He was clean, so clean, always smelling of after-shave and soap and toothpaste except when he hauled home a load of smelly fish.  He was a joke-telling and hugging man, handsome as all get-out, and everyone loved him; some of the younger women at church adopted him as their daddy.

Lloyd Harris wanted very little for himself--a fishing pole, bait, just the basics.  He never collected anything or bought anything extravagant. We got a new car every few years and traded in the old one.   Having worn hand-me-down clothes and shoes as a child, all he wanted was for his children to have everything they needed for a happy life.

I used to have a penchant for chocolate chip cookie dough and if I asked, he'd stop what he was doing and go to the store and get me one of those slice and bake rolls.  We'd eat some raw dough and cook the rest.  He could make a sound just like a baby chicken and the cashiers at the grocery store laughed when they say him coming.

When we watched Miss America (the Super Bowl at our house every September), he'd make popcorn balls with popcorn and bubbling sorghum syrup in a cast iron skillet.  I liked to help him shape them into balls, then return to the sofa to predict the winners.  "Southern girls are always the prettiest," he'd say.

The few times I ever saw him angry had to do with anyone doing or saying anything to hurt the people he loved--or even potentially hurting another person by driving drunk or too fast. During our last visit he got on a bit of a tirade about teenaged drivers--when he spotted one speeding in a red convertible.

I never left home that he didn't walk out to the car with me, give me a hug, make sure all the doors were locked, and give me a bit of driving advice.  "Always look out for the other guy," he'd say.  "Because he isn't going to be looking out for you."

I sometimes wonder what he thought about when he sat in his boat or on the side of a lake or pond.  I suspect he wasn't thinking about lofty philosophical questions, just being in the moment, watching the still surface of the water for a tug on the line.

He was that kind of man--practical and present and kind.   Other men come and go, but a man like that never goes far from the hearts of the people who remember him.  He was not a thing-person, but a people-person, and when he left us, the church was packed with people.  Even now, when I visit their church, I hear over and over again, "You look so much like your daddy,"  then a story about something funny he said or did.

If giving up something would do it, I'd give anything to be able to make him a banana pudding or pound cake today and thank him for the millionth time for being as close to perfect as a man can be.

I wish I'd sent Carlene 95 somethings--candles or roses, anything, to mark  the day--because as far as she's concerned, he's still here, still around her every day.  How true their love song of the Forties, the one they sang together in the car whenever we took road trips!  "I'll be loving you, Always...."

I miss him every single day!