It’s odd how some things surround the memories you can cherish.
The Old Man and I had just finished supper when he got a call about a drowning at a popular fishing spot on the Black River. We jumped in the big Oldsmobile and headed down the highway, up a country road and down another until we saw the blue lights lighting up the darkness.
It had been a wet summer, and I knew some of the places on the field road leading to the scene would be muddy, if not outright flooded. Several of the firemen and deputies by the road greeted us, but one was less than cordial.
“I can’t let you down there,” he said. Papa pointed out – politely – that the sheriff had called us about the drowning, but the deputy remained inflexible until his sergeant told him to let us through.
“You can’t drive, though,” he said, almost laughing. “It’s too narrow. I guess you can walk down there.”
“Thank you,” Papa said, followed by “Come on, son.”
I had stuck a flashlight in my camera bag, so we began walking.
It was Papa’s birthday. He was in his 70s. Some of the water was knee-deep, and some of the mud topped our shoes, but it really wasn’t that bad.
We slopped and sloshed our way to the scene, and I shot pictures while Papa interviewed the emergency workers and the family that the drowned man saved. Later, we started walking out when the sheriff called us over, and had a deputy give us a ride—in the sheriff’s car, right past the deputy who had refused us entry. The sheriff later apologized to Papa, but the Old Man told him not to worry about it, that the deputy was just doing his job. That was no reason to get the man in trouble.
Tom Weaver was that kind of man. He hated his first name, Walter, and thought his full name, Walter Thomas Weaver III sounded pretentious. He was my father, but he was a whole lot more.
While most folks remember him as a newspaperman, Papa was an historian, a patriot, an expert in architecture, a constitutional scholar, a lover of baseball, and an aficionado of automobiles from a time when they were made of iron, chrome and steel, not plastic and aluminum. He was a teacher, although his classrooms were newspaper offices and front porches and long country highways and fishing holes and ball diamonds.
Some would call him a politician, but not in the way we usually use the term. Diplomat and statesman would be more appropriate. He never ran for office (or wanted to) but he seemed to know everyone who ever had. I came to recognize the voices of some fairly heavy elected officials on the telephone, and was privileged to call a very few “uncle”, although most were referred to as Mr. or Mrs. or their title. He was even friends with several to whom he gave no quarter when he wrote editorials and columns. Folks used to be able to get along that way, and he did his best to teach me to “disagree agreeably,” as he put it, because that is what gentlemen did. I fail miserably sometimes at this, but I try, if for no other reason than the fact I still want to make him proud.
Papa taught me a lot of things; he taught me that every lady is to be treated as such until she proves otherwise, just as there is something beautiful about every single lady. He also taught me, by example, to fiercely love my wife, because it was a Biblical and social requirement that one’s wife and family come first.
Papa taught me that every human being can have value, but some humans choose not to do so. They weren’t to be hated by any means, but they also weren’t to be trusted – just prayed for and treated as fairly and respectfully as possible.
He taught me about loyalty to true friends, and how one needs to be there for anyone who needs help, if at all possible (and graciously, humbly ask for it when help is needed). He taught me that while we have to do our best, sometimes we will fail. The failure itself doesn’t have to be defining, but the way we handle it should be.
The Old Man taught me that it’s okay not to know everything, but to be willing to ask someone who does know, and to never quit learning. Although he never trusted them, he embraced computers in his mid-70s and even used the early Internet, understanding that it was just a tool, but a very useful one. He also fussed and occasionally cussed more than one machine when it didn’t do what he told it to, or when he forgo that you couldn’t rest your fingers on the keyboard and think as you could with his old manual Royal.
He taught me that a clear, concise sentence never hurt anyone, and that news belonged on the news pages, and opinions in their own section of a newspaper. He also taught me that just because a newspaperman has promised to write the facts, that doesn’t mean he has given up his right to form or express an opinion – but he also taught me that my own opinions must never color what I write as news or prevent as facts.
He taught me to stand my ground for what is right, even if everyone else has decided but cannot prove that the prevailing attitude is truth. He taught me never to say “I told you so,” as tempting as those words can be.
He taught me to wear my best to church and when representing my employer; he taught me to sharpen and carry a pocketknife. He taught me how to let a hammer do the work when you’re driving a nail, and how to apologize when you make a mistake.
He taught me the joys of good coffee; a simple, plain hamburger; and a properly-made milkshake (as opposed to the soft-serve ice cream often peddled as a milkshake). He taught me the importance of knowing which fork to use, whilst remembering that the folks who have multiple forks, knives and spoons and fancy dinnerware aren’t any more important than those folks with mismatched tableware and whose best plates are chipped.
He taught me that there is no black or white, red or yellow, but people are people, and all are children of God. Some may be good, some may be bad, and some may be both.
He taught me that judging our ancestors by modern standards is unfair as well as wrong, since it’s not right to trash folks who can’t defend themselves and were doing the best with what they had.
He taught me to respect all God’s animals and creations, but to remember that we were made stewards, not subjects to worship those creations.
He taught me to mortise a lock and sing with my diaphragm and catch a fish and use an axe and tie a necktie and salute the flag and never give up, even when a deputy refuses to allow you to drive a mile down a road into the woods at night.
He taught me to make amends for even the little things before it’s too late, and that’s what we had already done 19 years ago on May 5, when he settled down to take a nap and woke up in Heaven.
My father, Tom Weaver, taught me so many things.
But he never taught me how not to miss him.
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