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Lonely is the Home Without You
The Poem I Read at Dad's Funeral
Dad's Obituary
Published in the Florida Times-Union, August 21st, 2007
Announcement
Mom had these cards made up for the funeral guests
Special Mass
Neighbors Holly & Barbie dedicated a Mass to Dad
Special Mass 2
Mom's Friend Charles Prince and His Wife Dedicated a Mass to Dad in Wisconsin
Special Mass 3
Our Friends the Connelly's and the Rozo's Dedicated a Special Mass to Dad
Uncle Jack's Poem
My Uncle Jack wrote a poem he dedicated to Dad
Nephew Peter Robinson's card
Mom received an outpouring of sympathy cards from around the country
Dad's Tree
Dad had a tree planted in his honor
Dad's Star - Who left the light on? I did!
I had a star named after Dad for all eternity
Macon Football Team 1944
Dad is on the upper right, #55 (17 years old)
Macon Basketball Team, 1945
Dad is standing just right of the coach
Dad always loved a good restaurant
Good Times at Applebee's
Mom & Dad with 2 of their 9 grandchildren
Mom & Dad, 2001 with Nicolina & Sydney
1 comment:
Dad always had a few running jokes around the holiday dinner table. We all loved them, and they never got old.
His first joke was when Mom would say, "Harold, say Grace." Dad would always crack a little smile and say in a low voice, "Grace", and we'd all snicker. Then he'd always say the real prayer after that. But he always said “… for these thy gifts.” I’d always correct him at the end and say, “Dad, it’s ‘AND these thy gifts’,” to which he’d inevitably reply, “You can say the prayer next time.” Of course, I never did. We’d go through the same routine on the next holiday.
When we'd pass the food, there was always confusion as to which way to pass the food, clockwise or counterclockwise. Once that was settled, Dad would always take a bite of his food and say, "This tastes like M-O-R-E."
Dad would always survey the bountiful table and joke, “I wonder what the poor people are doing?” If Dad was a little slow on coming out with that joke, Dave or I would beat him to the punch. “Hey, Dad. I wonder what the poor people are doing?”, we’d ask.
Dad liked to refer to himself as Otis around the dinner table. We’d always hear something like, “Pass the mustard to Otis.” We loved that one, and all of us kids would follow suit. “Pass the bread to Otis,” I’d say. “Otis needs some more gravy,” Dave would chime in. Another Dad classic that just never got old. Quite the contrary, it got better with age, just like a fine wine.
At some point in the meal, Mom would say, “Harold, you got food all over your mouth. Dad would just wipe his mouth and say with a grin, “I’m saving it for later.” We always liked that comeback.
Early in the meal, Mom would notice that one of the kids or grandkids had wolfed down an entire plate of food, and was going for seconds. “Where’d you put all that food?”, she’d ask. “He’s got a hollow leg”, Dad would joke. We all got a lot of mileage out of the hollow leg joke, too. Anytime somebody was extra hungry, you could bet that someone at some point would say they had a hollow leg.
Mom makes the best cranberry and ambrosia salads on the face of this Earth. If you ever said, “Mom, this cranberry salad is delicious”, Dad would say, “Wait ‘til tomorrow. It tastes better the second day.” “Why is that?” I’d always ask Dad (even though I knew the answer and he knew I knew the answer). “The flavor sets in”, he’d explain with a smile.
Once the meal was over, Mom would ask who wants dessert. All the kids and grandkids would say “Me! I do!” Dad would look at us with a puzzled look and say, “Where you gonna put it?”
After dessert, everyone now had a full belly, stuffed full of Mom’s home cookin’. At this point, Dad would come out with one of my all-time favorites: “I just eat to be sociable. I’m so sociable I can hardly move.” “Me, too,” I’d say.
We’d sit at the table until we were excused. Before we got up, Dad would inevitably say “We oughta just throw a sheet over it. That’s what we used to do when I was a kid.” Again, if Dad was slow to say it, Dave and I had to say it just to make sure it got said. It was part of the family ritual. “Hey, Dad, we oughta just throw a sheet over it,” I’d comment. “That’s what we used to do when I was a kid”, he’d chime in. Then all was well at the Graves Family dinner.
We’ll never have another holiday dinner graced with Dad’s presence and his wit and charm. But we’ll always have the sweet memories of a father we loved who sat at the head of our table and the head of our family, and charmed us with his wit and wisdom through the years and through all the wonderful holiday meals. Dad, you are missed more than you could ever know. I may not have a hollow leg; but right now I do have a big empty place in my heart.
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