As I realized what today was, I started trying to remember things from my life. My memories of my dad are varied, and I do not know exactly why these are the things that come to my mind. Perhaps a psychiatrist would have a field day dissecting these thoughts, but I won't worry about that right now.
The first thing I thought of was going out on the front porch of our home at 207 Tunnel Blvd, maybe going to school, I don't know, but there was a trail of blood drops across the porch and leading into the house. It is funny how I can still see that scene.
My dad worked for a local chain grocery store, Red Food Stores. He was the produce buyer, and his early morning job was going to the Chattanooga farmer's market to buy fruits and vegetables for his stores. Area farmers would bring their crops into the market early in the morning each day of the week, I think except for Sunday, and he would buy and get the product into his stores for that day's sales.
If I remember, he would go out around 4am, in the company truck to buy, load and deliver to the warehouse, those products that were needed. He had to back down our drive, left hand on the driver's door frame, door open, looking to the rear, to see where he was going.
The driveway was lined with pine trees.
On this particular morning, he got too close to the tree with his door, and hand, and smashed his fingers into the tree with the door. I remember those blood drops, but I did not see him that morning. Seems like he came in, bandaged them up, and went on to work. His responsibility to his company was to get the job done, and he did just that.
When I was 10 years old, he left Red Food to start up his own produce brokerage firm. He had to keep up his early morning hours, so it was manual labor in the early morning, receiving produce from out of town sources, and shipping it out to his customers, then the office work of selling and buying, with occasional manual work during the day to get the job done. He had one man who oversaw the outside work, and one lady who ran the office, but he was hands on.
A produce broker was a middleman, a person who brought buyers and sellers together to move product from field to table. He had to know, and have the respect of both producers and consumers in order to get the job done. He had to know the product, know reputable shippers, arrange transportation on rail or truck, find out what his customers needed, bring the two sides together and get the product to market.
It was a complicated arrangement and it was all done on the phone, by word of mouth. There were no contracts to sign for purchase. It was all built on trust.
In order to service a small market like Chattanooga was then, my dad's customers ranged from the local chain store, to the local co-op, to wholesalers who serviced restaurants and small stores. His job was to make pool shipments out of their orders, buy the product from shippers, collect the monies, and remit to the producers. All of this without contracts, just a verbal handshake.
His word was indeed his bond. He was known in the industry, in fact in all his life's dealings, as a man of integrity and honesty. The produce industry watchdog was the Blue Book, where every firm was given a rating, from one to four stars, according to the way their shippers and customers accessed their reliability. I remember his pride when his company was awarded the four stars, and he was accorded Trading Membership by that service. This was probably his proudest day in business.
I remember when he hurt his knee playing tackle football with me in the side yard of our house. I think that was the last time for that.
I remember him being a fair dad, but a disciplinarian none the less. I remember my last spanking, with his belt, when I decided to grow up and not cry. That was the finale of capital punishment. I do not ever remember a punishment that I did not deserve, or one meted out in anger.
I remember his church work and his insistence on always tithing his income.
I remember his competitiveness in horseshoes and badminton. It was a fun time with family and friends, but he played to win.
I remember his generosity both to God and to others. God had first claim on his assets, but he did not shirk from loaning to those who needed it also, sometimes to the consternation of my mom.
I remember his love of family; his wife, his children and his grandchildren, and his pride in each.
I'm sure there are lots more things that may come to my mind as I go through this day, but maybe that is a post for another day.
My memory may be incomplete and a bit hazy, but I know that there are far less things than being remembered for a life of honesty and caring like his.
Thanks for that legacy, Dad
I love you
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