By: Jefferson Weaver
I felt a little underdressed, since it was the family gathering for Easter, and I wasn’t wearing a tie. Still, I was wearing a white shirt and a black vest, and my best black jeans. Out of deference to the nieces’ plans for an egg hunt, I decided to forego the tie, regardless of tradition and holiday.
My father-in-law half-smiled when he looked at me.
“You look just like your daddy,” he said.
I was taken aback; the Old Man never had long hair, and couldn’t stand more than a day or two’s worth of whiskers. He would never have shown up at a family dinner like this one without a tie and a coat. I was tongue-tied for a moment, and gave the only response I could imagine for such a compliment.
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me recently.”
Tom Weaver always tried to have something good to say to anyone, even if they didn’t necessarily deserve it. He taught me early on that every woman is a lady until she categorically proves otherwise, and a gentleman can always find something complimentary to say a lady. I admit, it makes my heart swell when folks tell me, 16 years later, that they remember “How nice a man Mr. Tom was.”
Papa wasn’t a shrinking violet, but he didn’t have to be the center of attention, either. Folks came to him for counsel, for assistance, or just because he was Mr. Tom. The fact that he wouldn’t just tell folks what they wanted to hear may have had something to do with that.
He didn’t claim to be any smarter or wiser than anyone else. Indeed, Mother often grew frustrated at his instinctive self-deprecation, the sincere modesty that likely worked against him once or twice. He told me frankly that he could have done better financially several times through the years, but he had to live with himself. Some of the offers he’d had weren’t illegal, but they weren’t the right thing to do, either. And Tom Weaver was always about doing the right thing.
Making a mistake was understandable and forgivable, but intentionally doing wrong could unleash an Old Testament quality anger. There was never any violence, of course – Tom Weaver wasn’t that kind of man – but by the time the lecture was completed, one would crave one of Mother’s old fashioned whippings. I learned that one reason Papa got so frustrated with some of my contretemps was because he was disappointed in himself – he hoped and prayed he could keep me from making the same mistakes he had. While my sins were my own, he felt deeply that many were also his, because he had failed. He hadn’t, in my opinion, but he disagreed (politely, of course).
While some Christians are naturally gifted with the ability to speak before a crowd, Tom Weaver was much quieter in his faith. He believed in praying in secret, and would never have been accused of praying for his own benefit in the marketplace like a Pharisee or a televangelist. It wasn’t showy, but his faith was important. While we often went to the newspaper office on Sunday morning before church, we didn’t skip services because the Old Man had some work to do. On the Lord’s Day, you were in the Lord’s house, and the rest of the week, you lived your witness for Him. I fail at following that faith example, but I try.
I realized later that it was the Old Man’s quiet faith that helped form so many of his views –he hated abortion, yet had nothing but love and pity for unwed mothers contemplating such. He had a passionate loathing for crime, especially when the most innocent victims were targets, which was why he was such an excellent crime reporter. He desired to see the end of dogfighting, and he wanted to see more animals spayed and neutered, so there would be fewer thrown-away pets on the roadways. His devotion to my mother was such that he was miserable if she was away from his side for more than a few hours. I didn’t know until adulthood that he hated missing so many of the ballgames where I played, but he automatically set aside his own desires to better provide for his family.
It took growing up for me to recognize and appreciate a lot of the things Tom Weaver taught his youngest son – or more importantly, why. We had a lot of time together in the last few months of his life, and I’m thankful that Papa was able to be my father while still being my friend.
He taught me about fishing, baseball, writing, history, music, people, women, dogs, carpentry, architecture, and the Constitution. He taught me about cars, politics, the War Between the States, family, farming, the courts, law enforcement, bees, winning and losing gracefully, and making a bow and arrow. He taught me how to sharpen a pocketknife, and how to sharpen a pencil with that knife.
He taught me to type, read my Bible, question that which doesn’t seem right, and make sure if something sounds right, it actually is. He taught me to look for ne’er-do-wells in the woods behind a hitchhiker before offering a stranger a ride.
He taught me not to look for a fight, but he also taught me where to draw the line, how not to back down if the time is right.
I do not have the time or space to describe all the things the Old Man taught me, right up to that last afternoon in the hospital, when he apologized to Mother for being lazy, but that he really wanted to take a nap.
I guess shouldn’t have been surprised that my wife’s dad said I looked like my father. After all, he taught me how to wear a tie and why one should wear a hat. He taught me to sing and pray and fight for what is right, and to speak my mind without (often) being mean. I’m willing to bet that whether either of us realized it, he taught me to walk and talk and listen and to want to help folks.
So yeah, I reckon sometimes I do look like the Old Man.
I hope so, anyway. I could strive for nothing better.
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