Dad

My dad grew up in rural Arkansas during the Forties and Fifties. He saw poverty and hardship, and worked hard to fight his way out of it. He joined the Army when he came of age, and got to see some of the world. He drove PT boats out of Portugal, and was with the Rhine River Patrol in Germany at the height of the Cold War. He came home and started a family. He worked hard to eventually earn a management position in the Truck Stop business. He and mom had four kids. Two girls and two boys. He kept us in clothes, food, a good home, and all our needs until we left the roost. He had a good woman by his side every step of the way. They made my childhood normal and safe. That’s a big deal. I may not have appreciated it then, but I certainly do now.

Wayne Stone wasn’t perfect. He had a temper. He struggled with depression. His wrath and moods were fierce and feared. He also took us fishing, hunting, camping, and taught us to play ball. He loved baseball, and loved playing with his kids. He was a competitor on, and off, the field. He had a soft side, too. There were only a few times I saw my dad cry, but I remember them all.

I was only eighteen when I started my own family. I was still fresh from my father’s house and memories of his gruff, moody discipline. I thought I’d never be that kind of dad. The one that yelled and got angry. The one that you were scared to talk to, if he was in a bad mood. I’d be different. Better. I wasn’t. It took me quite a few years to admit to myself that I was just as much of an imperfect person as my dad. I made plenty of mistakes, many of them identical to my dad’s. I’d like to think that, in my own way, I gave my kids at least a fraction of the security and peace that my dad gave me when I was a kid. For all his faults and moods, my dad did a great job. He and mom raised four kids on a single income. Dad never graduated high school, much less went to college, but he always had a job and provided for his family. He loved us, played with us, and disciplined us to teach us right from wrong. I’m grateful and proud that he was my dad.

Sixteen years ago, today, we lost our dad. He died at home, with his family around him. His grandkids, kids, and wife were there for him. It was hard, and it was sad. We mourned then, and we miss him still today. I look at social media and see his grandchildren having children and living their lives. My own youngest son, Timothy, had a son back in August. He named him Samuel Ethan Wayne Stone, to honor his mother, his best friend, and, of course, his grandfather, Wayne Stone. I know dad’s proud of all of them. To know that new, beautiful lives are here on this earth after we are dead and gone is every man’s idea of true immortality. A man who is remembered to those that follow him is never completely gone. When we tell our stories of dad to those who just know him from photographs, we ensure that he is still with us. Let’s all be sure to pass the word and let them know who he was to us.

Miss you dad. See you later. And thanks.