Here are thoughts of Father's Day, as it will arrive on Sunday, June 20, which is also the first day of summer.
There's a big difference between being a father and being a "Daddy."
Everyone is born with a biological father and mother, but the person who puts in the time to raise you is your Daddy. I had a good one. He was hard worker, a good farmer and, therefore, part of the backbone of the nation.
He had a great sense of humor and was a tremendous storyteller. He could tell a good story and he could do it while paying attention to small details. He had a phenomenal memory.
A good friend, Dr. Peggy Bulger, who was the bureau chief for the Center of American Folklore at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C., recently sent me an email. In it, she expressed that she would like to record my account of growing up in White Springs and north central Florida. I am flattered and I thought, "Where would I begin?" I guess the answer is: "At the beginning and that being some of my earliest memories."
How I wish I had done these recordings of my Daddy. Not that many years ago, I saw him on a short segment filmed at my first cousin's wedding in May 1993, six months before he died in mid-November. It was the next to the last large event he attended, the last was Homecoming at First Baptist Church in October of 1993. He was unwell, but he put on his good blue suit and, though he had lost a lot of weight, he was still well over 200 pounds and he looked great. He had that same smile.
I think of an old segment of "Little House on the Prairie," a once popular TV program. In one segment, there is a quote I know would be appropriate, as I think of my father with Father's Day approaching: "Remember me with smiles and laughter, for that is how I'll remember you all. If you can only remember me with tears, then don't remember me at all."
One of his last humorous lines to two friends who visited him before he died was, "Boys, isn't this something. It's too cold to go to the beach and too hot to go deer hunting, so I guess I could be worse places than in this clean, nice hospital room and the staff here is so kind to me." They all laughed. That night he went into a coma, but when he took his last breath, he was smiling.
Indeed, remember Wade Bullard (Nov. 7, 1927-Nov. 15, 1993) with smiles.
From the Eight Mile Still on the Woodpecker Route north of White Springs, wishing you a day filled with joy, peace and, above all, lots of love and laughter.