Howard E. Bailey, Jr.
On Thursday, September 20th, 2012, my father died
of a sudden heart attack. He was 78
years old and I had known him for 40 years.
He was an amazing father. I know
most of us want to say that about our fathers, and maybe it’s true, but my dad
was awesome.
He was the kind of man who was fortunate enough to have
found both the love of his life—my mother—at the age of 19 and to have found
his passion—building things out of wood—just a little bit before that. He was married to my mother for nearly 60
and, with the exception of a brief stint in the U.S. Army, had made his living
as an artist, making things out of wood.
He was civically minded.
He dutifully went off when he was drafted in the mid-1950’s and drove a
tank around the southern part of the country.
He even dragged my mom down South with him after they married in
1955. He was a part of the town’s Civil
Defense organization, and a founding member of the town’s, then, volunteer
ambulance corps. He then spent over 30
years as a member of one of the local volunteer fire departments, filling such
positions as engineer, lieutenant, and secretary. He headed several committees during his
tenure there, many of which revolved around honoring veterans around Memorial
Day. In recent years, when he could no
longer fight fires, he became involved with the American Legion, bringing
military honors to school assemblies, funerals and other events. He was never once paid for his service;
everything he did was done out of a desire to serve the community.
He was an active member of his church—which I honestly think
stemmed more from an intrinsic need to be involved and useful than any
religious leanings. He volunteered once
a week at one of the local hospitals.
He was a man on the go.
When he “officially” retired several years ago, he began volunteering at
the hospital. He devoted several hours a
week to the maintenance of the church and to helping out with organizational
stuff for the Legion. He even maintained
one or two customers.
This is nice stuff to know about him. If you know me, you know that his civic
mindedness is the main reason I’m a teacher today. It is important for me to “help out” when I
can. It’s nice stuff to know, but it’s
not the be-all-and-end-all of Howard Bailey.
He had a wicked sense of humor. Highly sarcastic—thanks to his and my
mother’s highly developed sense of sarcasm, my sisters and I are fluent in that
language. Highly irreverent. He taught me the value of a good laugh and
the most inappropriate times. I did
raise a few eyebrows when I went off to kindergarten and told a child to, “Get
off the table, Mabel! The two bits is
for the beer!” Highly animated. He was the master of pulling you in for a
serious story only to have you rolling on the floor with laughter a few moments
later. He was the king of the
absurd. There was always a ridiculous
quote or quip or pun or song.
He always had a song to sing or a tune to whistle. This was so prevalent, that I could never understand why other dad’s
didn’t do this. Even though I haven’t
lived at home for a million years, I still get “The shadow of your smiiiile is
everrrrrrywheeeere” stuck in my head.
That and “Scooby dooooby dooooo, your mother’s pregnant…” (but only if I
can do it like Frank Sinatra).
He believed in honor and duty and doing what was right even
when doing what was wrong would have been so much easier. He held doors open for women. He took the Pledge of Allegiance and the
National Anthem seriously. He always did
the things he was supposed to do when he was supposed to do them. He held himself to a higher standard than
most people seem to do. He wanted to be
a good person, a good citizen, a good man.
He was opinionated, but he was tolerant of others’
beliefs. He and I argued politics, and
even though he disagreed with me, he listened to me. He forced me to defend my beliefs and then he
respected them. And he respected me for
being able to do so.
He gave the best hugs.
I cannot tell you how many pairs of my glasses have been permanently
bent due to a good bear hug.
He valued family. And
while my mom and sisters meant the world to him, it wasn’t just that kind of
family. He and my mother pulled people
into the family, making them feel like they really were family—providing them
with love, support, and (more often than not) a hot meal (or 12).
He loved with his whole heart. There has never been a day in the past 40
years that I have doubted his affection.
He made me feel loved, respected, and special. He made me feel valued and important. He made me feel that I could do
anything. And the best part was that he
could do all that with a hug or a smile.
Even when he was angry with me or disappointed in me (which was worse),
I knew that he loved me.
And because he loved me and because of how he loved my
mother, I knew that I should (and did) find the same—someone who loves me and
our children unconditionally; someone who listens to me, respects me, makes me
laugh so hard my face and stomach hurt; someone who cries with me and supports
me; someone who disagrees with me, but respects me anyway.
He wasn’t a saint. My
best curse words come from my father.
The things that I shout (from the safety of my car) to other drivers
come from my father (“You first, right after me, ace.”). My periodic craving for cheap beer comes from
my father. He got angry. He made mistakes. He owned both of those things, though. He admitted both were wrong and he worked to
fix them. The fixing sent a loud and
clear message to me about responsibility and ownership. He may have had his faults, but he knew them
and tried to compensate.
To be absolutely honest, I miss him. I didn’t talk to him every day—or even every
week sometimes—but I really, really miss him.
And it hurts. To paraphrase one
of my sisters, I wasn’t quite done with him before he left us.
