Just Call Him David Lee

On June 30, 2000, Cabell County officially retired Janet from teaching.  I’d loafed around the house for the past year, happily retired from educating others as well, while she worked yet another year teaching fourth grade.

On Wednesdays I didn’t do anything special except take care of my grandson, Tanner, while Anthony and his wife, Cheryl, worked at the hospital.  Tanner and I got along fine:  I fed him three meals a day with bottles in between; diapered him as often as needed, no matter what surprise they held; bathed him and let him play in the water until it was almost too cold for comfort; played with him on my lap and on the floor; sang to him; dabbed at spit-ups; rocked him to sleep and fell asleep myself with Tanner sprawled on my belly; took pictures of him propped up in the rocker, sitting alone, standing alone, then walking alone; read him stories; and kept him from harm as best I knew how.  On warm days, I pushed him up and down the road in his car.  Greta, my German shepherd, prissed up and down the road with us.  I think Papaw and Greta were the first words Tanner learned to speak well enough for others to understand.  At least, it was my intentions that Papaw be his first word.  I’m thankful for the bond the two of us have, and I believe it’s because of the Wednesdays we were together during his first year. 

On the days I was alone, I washed and ironed, cleaned house, mowed the yard, read a few bestsellers, and had supper ready to put on the table when Janet got home.  As I performed these subservient tasks and entertained myself, I longed for the autumn after her retirement—longed for the trip we’d planned out West to celebrate our freedom from teaching and the untold responsibilities the profession entailed.

v        v        v   

From the time Anthony and Nathan were toddlers, we’d always vacationed at a small family beach on Oak Island in North Carolina.  It was our big bash before returning to another stressful year at school.  We couldn’t afford anything else on our meager salaries, so we resigned ourselves to revisit the same vacation spot year after year.  Knowing it was the best we could do, we comforted one another with the words:  “At least it’s more than many parents are able to do for their kids.”

Our time at the beach was like being at home—cooking simple meals instead of eating out; going to bed early so we could rise early and squeeze as much as we could into a week; watch a little television; and take late afternoon walks along the beach.  We tried to go to Myrtle Beach on the Wednesday of each vacation to spice things up a little, visiting the Pavilion first thing.  We loved viewing ourselves in the mirrors that distorted our bodies, causing us to laugh uncontrollably each time we did it.  A lot of time was wasted consoling whiny youngsters who were frustrated from not knowing how to spend the little bit of money they had tucked away in their pockets.  There was too much to see and do and not enough time or money to do it all.  And, as always, the thing that didn’t cost a cent turned out to be the most fun—the Pavilion itself.

Most of our time, however, was spent on the beach digging in sand, covering up with it, shaking grit off beach towels, and building sand castles.  We did everything conceivable with these minute particles until we reached the point where we could hardly wait to go home and get away from anything resembling these gritty granules.  We also swam, floated on rafts, walked along the beach until the skin beneath our big toes cracked and peeled to the quick, picked briars out of little feet, gleaned for prized olive and conch shells, then swam some more.  Once everyone expended their strength, we’d drag ourselves in to shower the saltwater and sand from our bodies, sending it down the drain and as far away as the rushing water would carry it.  One by one we became squeaky-clean, and then we piled in the car and headed for either Max’s or Rose’s, as if we were sure to find some oddity at yet another discount store that we couldn’t find back home at one of K-Mart’s blue-light specials.                

At the end of our routine, but busy, week on Oak Island, we crammed our belongings into every nook and cranny of the car—everything stuffed in brown B&B Supermarket bags—then struck out early Saturday morning for the hills of West Virginia.  Over the years I heard many men boast, “Why, it only took me eight hours to drive from the beach.”  I was never one to clamp down on the accelerator, so we never made the trip in less than twelve or thirteen hours.  Too, there was always at least one in our party who couldn’t pass up a rest stop, no matter how close together they were.  Going home, Janet and I were filled with a hodgepodge of emotions.  We were thankful that we’d been able to spend time away with the kids, but on the other hand, we were burdened with what lay ahead.  Usually, we were home only a matter of days before confronting the most dreaded words of all—back to school.

v        v        v   

Out West got shoved to the back of our minds when the boys were little.  Either Janet or I would remark from time to time, “Someday, when our boys are through school and on their own, and when we don’t have car and insurance payments or tuition fees, we’ll take a trip out West.”  That was usually the extent of our discussion, though.  We’d done a few things after they moved out, but I’d always been passionate about heading west—had been since Horace Greeley’s words, “Go west, young man, go west,” were engraved on my brain at Upper Bowen School.  I mostly kept the idea stored in my subconscious, though, thinking it would never come to fruition.  Yet I was wrong.  With God all things are possible, a precept I sometimes forget in the frantic pace of daily living.  He was the one who transformed our dream vacation into reality.

In July, following Janet’s retirement, we began to formulate our plans.  After careful consideration, we decided we needed another couple to go with us—to be there for companionship, financial, and security reasons.  We’d traveled a couple of times with our friends, Buddy and Lilly, sharing the cost of a rental car both times.  So, we asked them to tag along.  They accepted.

We made arrangements to fly from Cincinnati to Las Vegas on September 5, after school was back in session.  Our plan was to see the West after the summer rush was over.  The thought of exploring the expanse between Cincinnati and Las Vegas was dismissed from our minds.  I was adamant about seeing nothing other than national parks and monuments out West, so the plains of the Midwest were out of the equation.  My heart was set on snow-capped mountains, deep canyons, and desert air.  When we gave the travel agency final word on plane reservations, it was a gamble.  The tickets were nonrefundable, but the four of us threw caution to the wind and bought them anyway.

Toward the end of August, however, Mother’s condition worsened.  Janet and I told Buddy and Lilly to be prepared for the possibility that we may not be able to make the trip after all.  We hated to tell them, especially after persuading them to go.  Not only did we face the possibility of not going, there was a good chance we’d lose our money on the plane tickets as well.  However, Mother died on August 31, and was buried on September 3.  I was at war with my feelings between these dates—distraught over the loss of my mother, not wanting to make the trip for fear of what others might think about our leaving so soon after her death, and not wanting to disappoint Buddy and Lilly.

Finally, I reached a decision:  We would go ahead with our plans, despite what people might think.  I believe Mother would have wanted it that way.  She enjoyed traveling herself—hardly ever turned down a trip when we offered one—and I don’t think she would’ve wanted her death to stand in the way of our enjoying some of the awesome sights our country has to offer.

On September 5, we departed Cincinnati aboard a nonstop Delta jet headed for Las Vegas, Nevada.  The flight was smooth, lasting a little more than three hours.  The time seemed shorter, however, because I was lost in thought as the plane floated effortlessly above the clouds.  Once we leveled off, I settled comfortably in my seat and closed my eyes.  The quiet whistles and drones of the plane’s engines lulled me into contemplating some of the whys of my existence.

     And God blessed them and God said

unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply,

and replenish the earth…

(Genesis 1:28)

Billions of years before planet Earth was spoken into existence—as many years ago as one followed by a hundred zeros and before that—God knew about me.  He knew the exact millennium—even the split second—I would make my entrance into the world.  The date He chose was December 1, 1943.  God knew my hair would be stubborn and brown, and He chose hazel coloring for my eyes.  Just as He knows how many droplets of water it takes to fill all the rivers and their tributaries at any given time, He knew the exact number of hairs I would have on every square inch of my head, on the ring finger of my left hand, and both big toes.  God was aware—billions of years ago—of all my physical and mental idiosyncrasies that make me distinctive as an individual.  His knowledge, awareness, and understanding of me have been complete and unlimited throughout eternity.  Nothing about me has escaped Him.

I’m certain, then, He’ll forgive me if I, at times, battle my human side and wonder why I was ever born.  I’m careful with whom I pose this question, however.  On occasion, I’ve asked certain individuals, “Has there ever been a time you wished you were never born?”  Some would answer “Yes,” but most would shift their eyes a little, raise their brows a half inch or so, then take a quick, uneasy glance at me as if I’d just committed the unpardonable sin.  Right away I knew what they were thinking: What are you?  Don’t you know God put you here for a reason?  Are you some kind of atheist?  They wouldn’t ask me straight out, but I felt they were headed in that direction.  If they’d been audibly blunt with me concerning this matter, then my prompt answer would’ve been an underscored, “Well, no, I’m not!”  In fact, I’m still angry with the United States Supreme Court for letting Madalyn Murray O’Hare have her way about getting prayer taken out of public schools.  Was that an act representative of the majority of our citizenry?  I think not.  We all know what it’s done to society ever since, too.  I fear things will never again be the same.

Oh, I’ve been told—and have read it myself—that God created us because He was lonely, that He made man in His image to serve Him.  Still, did He need me?  God already had an ample following before I came on the scene, and He’ll have a bountiful supply once I’m gone.  Was I, then, a necessary entity?  I realize others may be right when they tell me I shouldn’t question such matters.  Yet how can I prevent these concerns from entering my mind—whether they are fleeting, whether I dwell on them at length, or whether they come into my thoughts in a dream?

Then, there’s this other thing:  Mother and Daddy already had five kids, so why in the world did they need another one?  From the human perspective, they didn’t.  My arrival into this world was purely accidental—or so I thought—because there was no such thing as Planned Parenthood in 1943.  In fact, I’m probably safe in saying many accidents are walking our streets today and many are still waiting to happen.  Two people don’t just sit around when they’re planning their nuptials and suddenly come up with an agreement to have six kids.  That’s not how it happens.  At least they shouldn’t do it without giving the matter a lot of consideration.  I can’t imagine my parents having the following conversation before they were married:

“Marie, don’t you think when we’re married, we oughta have six kids?”

“Well, Jack, I hadn’t really thought about it, but I can tell you’re serious about this.”

“Yes, I’ve given the matter a lot o’ thought, and I think maybe six is a good number.  Just think what we could do with half a dozen kids.”

“You may be right.  We could probably handle six.  Tell you what.  While we’re at it, let’s have three girls and three boys.  We’ll take turns namin’ ’em when they’re born.  I’ll let you go first.” 

“Now, you’re a-scarin’ me.  That was my thoughts exactly.  We’ll get started on it just as soon as we’re married—okay?”

“Sounds good to me.  What’s next while we’re in this plannin’ mood?”

No.  Life’s not that simple.  Human accidents make things more interesting for all involved.

v        v        v   

There was a time when I was convinced that I was adopted.  The idea was as real to me as breathing.  I’d start by feeling sorry for myself over some punishment that’d been meted out to me, and before long my imagination would just slip out of control.  The young mind sometimes reasons that parents wouldn’t punish their own kid but wouldn’t hesitate to chastise an adopted one.  However, when I got a little older and became more knowledgeable about the world, I came to realize that no two people in their right minds would adopt another baby when they had five hungry mouths to feed already.  It would be an invitation to insanity, voluntarily taking another screaming, hungry kid under their roof.  So, in my final analysis of the situation, I stopped thinking that my arrival into the Thompson household was from some dismal orphanage after all.  I really did belong to my natural parents, Jack and Marie Thompson.  For whatever the cause, God had made me part of the human race, another being for Mother and Daddy to feed, clothe, and shelter.

My parents certainly couldn’t afford another little one around their feet, but I became part of their lives whether I fit in their tight budget or not.  Daddy worked for the C&O Railroad—barely made enough money for the family to get by even before my arrival.  So, it was only natural that this new, precious, little being of theirs added an additional crunch to an already critical money shortage.

I guess Mother told me at least a million times while I was growing up, “You was born in the corner of the livin’ room, right over there,” stretching her arm and pointing to the exact spot where I’d made my entrance.  That house still sits there today, deserted and lonely.  I can barely look at it when I drive by because of the wonderful memories of my childhood and the love and warmth I felt within the confines of its walls while I was growing up.  She said that Dr. McClellan, a so-called country doctor from West Hamlin, spent the night I was born waiting patiently for my arrival.  As the evening wore on, and I still hadn’t arrived, he politely asked for a place to lie down for a while.  Apparently, he was tired of waiting.  Once I finally entered this world, though, Mother knew she wanted to call me David but hadn’t settled on a middle name.  My middle name was, no doubt, the furthest thing from her mind during the throes of hard labor.  She said while Dr. McClellan was busy filling out the information for my birth certificate, that he commented, “Ah, just call ’im David Lee,” then continued to write it down, just like that, without asking her approval.  So, that’s how I came to be known as David Lee Thompson—Jack and Marie’s baby—Mother’s way of introducing me to others since I can remember.  Sometimes it was embarrassing, too, but I grew accustomed to it as time moved on.  We have to learn to accept things after awhile.

If I’d had any choice in the matter, though, I would never have placed myself dead last in that long line of Thompson children living on Bowen Creek.  Older siblings deal with the youngest family member as if he never had things as tough as the rest of them, is inexperienced in everything compared to the others—in a word, somewhat of a half-wit.  During family get-togethers, he’s often left out of family reminiscences about growing up together because simpletons cannot possibly retain anything important.  Displeased as I am, however, with the chronology of our lineage, it’s destined to be as it is until dust we all return. 

First was Pat, my oldest sister, whose real name is Ruth.  We all call her Pat, except Margaret; she refers to her as Patty.  Margaret came next.  It’s odd how we called her Margot when we were younger, except Pat, who labeled her Sister and still calls her that today.  For some reason the rest of us switched from Margot to Margaret, but I don’t think anybody really knows the reason why or when it happened.  Kenneth was next in line.  He’s the oldest male of the lot and very much the family clown.  Nila Jean was the third female to be born and the only one out of the six important enough to have both her names used, despite the tone in which they were spoken, on occasion.  Philip, my self-appointed mentor, was born before me, causing me to bring up the rear in this overcrowded situation.

I desperately wanted Mother and Daddy to have another baby, a half-wit of my own to lead around by the nose, making its life inferior to mine.  I’d been second-rate long enough.  Actually, I didn’t even know the female gender had babies during that phase of my existence. Birds laid eggs, bees made honey, and life was as simple as that.    Whenever the subject of where babies came from arose, Mother always told us they’d bought us.  So, it seemed that my request for Mother and Daddy to buy me a baby was within reason.  Whether it was a brother or sister didn’t matter.  Daddy’s eagerness toward the image of purchasing a new baby would’ve been indisputable.  However, Mother was another story:  She was probably too diminished in strength, had a headache, or really wasn’t in the mood for going baby shopping.  When I’d ask Mother and Daddy, “Will you all buy me a baby?” they’d both give a hearty laugh, and I’d think, Well, if baby buyin’s that much fun, then why can’t we go and buy one right now?  I thought it was unfair for the baby buying to stop once they purchased me.  Just what was the problem with my parents?

No one knew it, but I sneaked to the mailbox daily, hoping beyond hope there’d be a new brother or sister gently placed inside that metal container, snugly wrapped in a soft blanket.  There it’d be, waiting for its older brother to take it out and cuddle it for a season, until tiring of it and laying it aside, then moving on to another object of temporary interest.  Has there ever been anybody that naïve before?  I was like Prissy in Gone With the Wind:  I didn’t “…know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ no babies.”

v        v        v   

Most people, today, call me David; however, I’ve been called several names over the years.  To some, I am Dave.  One of my high school teachers always called me Davie, but I didn’t like it very well.  My neighbor, Earl Nida, who lived one house down the road from us, always greeted me with, “Hello there, King David.”  Remembering my name was probably difficult for Earl, since he already had ten names living under his own roof to recall when he needed to toss out an order to somebody.  Emmy Childers, who lived in the next house up the road, referred to me, without fail, as Brother David.  My students in school called me Mr. Thompson; however, many of them respectfully called me Mr. T. throughout my teaching career.  Janet and my brothers and sisters call me David, and Anthony and Nathan call me Daddy.  My newest title is Papaw, the name Anthony and my daughter-in-law, Cheryl, have taught Andrew and Tanner to call me.  Sometimes Tanner jokingly calls me David, too.  These are all the names to which I have answered over the years.  It’s doubtful, however, that I’ve escaped being called others, too—ones I don’t care to know about—but those must be left to the imagination.

As it is now, my questions concerning the reasons for my presence on planet Earth are no longer skepticism but rock-solid truths.  The human side of me has relented, accepting the spiritual realities of my existence.  I’m here for the simple reason that God created me for His glory.  He created me to fellowship with Him—as a free, moral agent—to choose, love, and serve Him.  If I weren’t free to make the choice of placing Him first in my life, then love and servitude would be meaningless.  He wants each of us to come to the realization that He created the universe for His own enjoyment, adoration, reverence, and power.  We are to glorify God for who He is now, what He has accomplished in the days gone by, and what He will achieve throughout immortality.  And when God created us from the dust of the ground, He placed us at the top of His plan.  Of all His creations, we are the ones He treasures most.  Consequently, I’m no longer at odds with my emotions and have found peace with the reason for my existence.  I’m only a minute fragment in the grand scheme of things, a small player in God’s plan to replenish the earth because my parents were blessed and listened when He spoke to them, saying, “…Be fruitful, and multiply…”

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