Ruralite Cafe: Published 06/14/01

By Lisa Majors-Duff News Editor

I admit it, I'm a daddy's girl

Though Dad's been out of Sylva's limelight for some time now - since Bob Swan closed C&S Chain Saw and Dad started working on lawn mowers and brushcutters at home - he's not been forgotten. It seems everywhere I go these days, someone stops me and asks how my daddy's doing. My family and I cannot thank you enough for your kind words, your thoughts and your prayers.

All things considered, my dad is doing well. His major complaint, as is the case with most of those who suffer from CLL, is fatigue. About the middle of each afternoon, he puts down his wrench and heads inside for a nap. After four more chemo treatments, he expects to be back at work full time.

The need to be less active has not been easy for my father to accept. He continues to be involved in Civil War re-enacting activities and keeps up with his 7-year-old granddaughter every chance he gets. As our parents age, we expect them to become less active. But my dad is not anywhere near old. We just celebrated his 60th birthday and his and mom's 33rd wedding anniversary two weeks ago.

And this weekend it's time once again to celebrate, to honor all our fathers for keeping their cool when they taught us to drive, for saying "yes" when Mom said "no," for passing on their love of history, for never failing to make a summer vacation to South Dakota the world's greatest adventure.

Two quick stories about my dad, and then I'll hush. Not long after he taught me to drive, which was an experience all by itself since I learned on a 1975 Jeep CJ-5, my dad called me at home after he got off work one Saturday afternoon. He said he was at the neighbor's house and that I needed to bring the Jeep down to get him.

When I asked why, he calmly explained that the morning's rain storm had washed the road out since he'd gone to work earlier in the day, but that the Jeep should be able to ford the small creek that had resulted. Doing as any good daughter would, I jumped in the Jeep and started down the mountain.

About half a mile from the house, I spied the water in the road and immediately questioned my dad's descriptive abilities. This was no "small creek," but a rushing river of whitecaps, a thing of beauty to any kayaker of fearless stock.

Just below the roaring rapids stood my dad, yelling something to me and motioning me to come ahead. He's lost his mind, I thought as I stared at the water and realized how deep the current must have cut into the gravel road.

I shook my head "no" and stood fast. The calmness he'd exhibited on the phone was quickly reaching its end as he continued, more emphatically, to motion me forward. Knowing he was approaching the end of his rope, I inched the Jeep tow-rd the Camp Creek River Ride and squeezed my eyes nearly shut.

I didn't get more than a foot into the swells when the front of the Jeep pitched forward, lifting the rear wheels off the ground. Once he saw that I was not hurt, Dad just hung his head, letting it gently sway from side to side.

A couple of hours later, after the river returned to its original creek status, we discovered the gouged out ground was more than 7 feet deep and about 20 feet long. When Dad, who stands just over 6 feet tall, jumped in to examine the pit, his head disappeared from sight.

I uttered not one "I told you so"; instead, I understood that the day's experience defined better than any other the trust I have in my father, or as I like to call him, He Who Can Do No Wrong. I know my father is proud of me, but I don't often voice how proud I am of him. But that's exactly what I felt two summers ago when so many of us turned out to work on the new Poteet Park project. My dad was one of the first people there on Day One with as many of his tools as he could fit in the back of his truck.

When I got away from my desk later that day to take pictures, I found my dad having the time of his life, seeing old friends and making new ones. He told me about his name tag, and that one color meant you could perform specialized skills, while another meant you could spread gravel. When I next got away from my desk, this time to work, I picked the same color name tag as my father had. The specialized tag said to the project foreman that I was capable of measuring angles and working with the power tools, when in fact I'm really just allergic to shovels. Anyway, I was in the middle of helping my dad and a couple of other guys nail a board in place when a friend of mine walked up to our group. Until finding me that day with a tool belt around my waist, this friend had only known me as a reporter and was surprised to learn that I had these more hands-on talents.

Then I introduced my friend to my father.

"Harold Majors is your dad," he said. "Now I understand."

I love you, Dad. Happy Father's Day!

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