Tribute: Happy Birthday, Pop

He was born on April 7, 1933. His birth certificate said his name was John Long. My brother, sister, mother and I never knew this until after he was gone. He was born to a single mother. She was about 35 at the time. He would not meet his father until he was 17 - the same age his father was when he was conceived.

As it was told to me when I was older, his mother's first husband died leaving her a widow. She went to the country to stay with friends. She was neither educated, nor of means. There was a young man there helping out with work needed around the farm. One thing led to another. It doesn't take rocket science to figure it out. He was born in an old house at the foot of the original Cooper River bridge. It was not a nice area of town.

His mother was a bit unsettled. She would leave him with friends or relatives while she took off for weeks or months at a time. One woman his mother left him with took it upon herself to tell his mother enough was enough. While there was no blood relation, he would come to affectionately refer to her as his grandmother ("Mrs. M"). If mom left him with her and took off like she had been doing, Mrs. M was going to do what she could to look out for the boy. Mrs. M was not a young woman. She had raised 10 children of her own and those children had children of their own. In his words, she needed him like she needed a hole in her head. But She went to the Judge because she thought it was in his best interest. At that time it was the Master in Equity who decided such issues- there was no Family Court.

The boy was 5 years old when it started. He was confused. That his mother loved him, he had no doubt. What her circumstances were, he neither knew, nor should he have known. But he was confused, and he was scared. Some of the places she had left him were not so nice. He was an extra mouth to feed for people living at subsistence level in the depths of the depression and barely had enough to eat themselves. Mrs M wanted to adopt him. At 6 years old a judge took him into chambers and asked him where he wanted to live. The weight of the world--his world-- was on his shoulders. He knew his mother loved him, but there was no stability. He knew Mrs. M loved him, and she was always there. . . .

His name became "M"- after he was officially adopted. His brothers and sisters were the age of his parents and his mother/grandmother was an old woman. (These surrounding facts caused my siblings and I much confusion in later years.) He wore the same ragged jeans for a year. Shoes that did not match. Rice and beans made up many a breakfast lunch and supper. If he complained he was whipped. If he did not do his chores, he was whipped. It was a different life . . .a different time. She was as poor as the proverbial church mouse. Yet she provided all of the food and shelter she possessed to protect and feed him. She had next to nothing, yet she shared what she had. And she taught him by example to do the same. She kept a pallet in the back room where many a homeless person looking for a little shelter from the elements came to stay. He did not know how they found her home, but he watched as she share generously from her meager stores with others who were down on their luck.

When he was old enough he took a paper route. He bought clothes and he bought the necessities that he had been deprived of earlier in life. Throughout the rest of his life he would always be known as a sharp dresser. He even worked in Men's clothing his whole adult life. Sorry, I digress.

When Mrs M died he was a young teenager. He stayed with others who were generous enough to put him up. He made it through high school. Somewhere in there-around sixteen or seventeen--he attended a funeral where he was introduced to a man who was about 34 or 35. This man was his father. Both his mother and his father were known to me as grandparents as I grew up. And let me tell you. . .I was confused until my grandmother died. That was the night he explained these things to me. . .in his words. She died when I was in my early 20's. my grandfather died while I was in Law School. (my mid 30's).

I had the best father that anyone could have ever chosen. Not perfect. . .by no means. . .but damn good. He was principled and honest. He went to work every day. He fed, clothed, loved and raised his family. We never knew hunger or want or fear of uncertainty. He came a long way. . .not without scars, but without bitterness. In 1988 he buried his son. . .my brother. That was and is a tragedy that no parent should have to go through. It broke him for a while. It broke us all. Personally I learned some great lessons in that sorrowful time. And it took more than a few years to get through it. but the lessons made me appreciate just what I had been given, just what I did have. This tragedy could have torn my family apart. I think it brought us closer together. I am grateful to and for my father for that fact. When I was 17, I could tell you how rotten my parents were. At 35, I knew I could not have hand picked a better family.

He died on March 17, 2005. He is respected, missed and loved. And even now whatever I do, I want to make him proud.

There was no big brother looking out in those days when he was conceived and growing up. Most human actions were still self governed. No Fox News to spread shock and lay blame at the foot of the "evil liberals." No Nancy Grace to convict a poor woman in the court of popular opinion. No, these events took place in the "good old days" before the big brother decided to poke his nose into every nook and cranny to root out the evil events that occur in the private lives of it's citizens. Before the Nixon's war on drugs, Reagan's war on the poor, and Bush II's war on our civil rights, poor people still had problems, and life was hard, but they weren't put on trial or in jail for simple human shortcomings. Thank goodness.