Buried my hero this week (Army, the best, house, where to stay)
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Don was a second cousin. Alcoholic father, mother who abandoned him, often slept at friends when his dad was nowhere to be found. Learned to hunt and fish so he’d have something to eat when “dad” wasn’t around. One time, after he walked “home” from football practice, he opened the door to the house they were staying in to find it empty. His dad had sold everything to but supplies to make moonshine. In fact, his dad spent time in prison for moonshine and was making it as late as 1978, two years after I left home!
He reported to the Army three months early because he had nowhere to stay and no idea where he’d get his next meal. Don made it through airborne and was sent to Vietnam where he made a deal with God: get me out of this and I’ll serve you the rest of my life. Both kept their end of the bargain.
When he returned from Vietnam, he married his sweetheart Marie and they stayed married until his passing last week, well over 50 years. He got a full scholarship to play football at a jr college and followed that with a full football scholarship at FSU.
Don majored in education and eventually earned a doctorate. Teacher, coach, athletic director and superintendent of two different systems in two states. Generous to a fault. He made a deal with a friend of mine who owns a auto service center back home. Many times, he’d call Kenny and say, so-and-so is coming down. They need tires or repairs. “Take care of them, I’ll stop by and pay the bill later. “
Don was known for sharing vegetables and fruit from their land. Pecans, corn, apples, beans - he was the best neighbor. Don had so many excuses not to succeed but succeed he did. He made it his mission to be there for his son and daughter, never missing an event of theirs as kids. Eight grandkids were lucky to have him and Marie as grandparents.
Many of us don't appreciate how nice we had it growing up as kids.
Your friend was a hell of a good man. Thanks for sharing his story.
He was in Vietnam for a year, mostly 1970. The only thing he ever said to me was that he could count the number of times he came out of the jungle on one hand.
When I went in the service, he asked me why. That was 1976 and the service wasn’t a popular option. He understood my reasons: to earn the GI Bill and to give a middle-finger to those who treated our vets so badly when they returned from Vietnam.
When my father passed, I flew home and that afternoon, he tracked me down, drove over, picked me up and we went out for ribs. We talked about my dad and what my parents had done for him.
About 12 years ago, he had to terminate a teacher. The teacher’s husband jumped him and beat him into the hospital. It touched off his PTSD again. I did what Don would have wanted me to do: I called his son Brad and made certain that he didn’t retaliate. Today, Brad is an assistant principal at an elementary school with three boys of his own. His wife is a teacher who has survived cancer twice. Brad is an acorn from a oak tree. He’s everything to his sons that his dad was to him.
Most of us were born on second or third thinking we hit a single. Don barely made it up to the batter’s box but I’ll be damned if he didn’t hit a grand slam in life.
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