Five years ago about this time, my father, Coolidge Sims, learned that he had cancer– a health difficulty far beyond the heart condition he had dealt with for years. It took him by surprise, as it did all of us.
My 88 year old Dad was in the hospital for an overnight stay to investigate the source of pain and discomfort he was feeling when the tests came back with a malignant tumor diagnosis.
I am eternally grateful for the spiritual heritage and upbringing I received from my family. Passed down to me and to my siblings was the truth about Jesus Christ, and a solid faith in His Word. My parents took seriously the biblical admonition from Deuteronomy 11:19: “You shall teach them to your children, talking of them when you are sitting in your house, and when you are walking by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise.”
But spiritual precepts are not all that my family passed down to us. Oral history is a part of the fabric of our family. The following is another excerpt from a book I am presently penning about my late father, Coolidge Sims. His last days in an assisted living center gave me a brief season to hear him again rehearse the stories of his childhood that I had heard all of my life. One evening in June of 2012, I joined Dad for supper in the dining hall of his final residence, The Oaks.
Our conversation that memorable evening includes his version of one of my favorite family stories. Enjoy!
For YEARS, at the southeast corner of 2nd Avenue South and the Mellow Valley Highway stood the Ashland Crub Market. Yes, you read it correctly– “crub” market. A ten foot, homemade sign emblazoned with black letters on a plain white background greeted travelers headed south from town, just one block from the court house square. Almost all Ashlanders will remember it.
Obviously, it was supposed to say “curb market,” which is an open air fresh fruit and vegetable stand, common throughout the South. At curb markets, we could buy fresh produce by the box or by the item, cash only. It was a quick, happy way to usher those fresh grown veggies into the kitchen– especially for Ashlanders who didn’t have time to work their own gardens.
It’s the week of the Fourth of July and my thoughts turn toward our veterans and active duty military. I am so appreciative to what they do and what they have done for our country. It’s always a tradition at Kingwood Church to honor them on the Sunday before Independence Day. It brings tears to my eyes every time. And I can’t help but think of my father, Coolidge Sims. He was a veteran of World War 2, and my personal war hero. But “hero” is not how he described himself. The following is a conversation I had with my dad in 2012, not long before he made his journey to heaven. It is an excerpt from a book I am presently writing about his life.
I had joined him for supper one evening in the dining hall of the assisted living center, and randomly we were talking about the fear of death. He recounted a wartime story that I had never heard before.
“When you were young, Dad, do you remember a time when you thought you might die? I asked candidly.
The following is an excerpt from chapter three of the rough draft of a new book I am presently writing. The book focuses on the last months of my elderly father’s earthly life, and the myriad of conversations we had during visits with him at The Oaks, an assisted living center. Dad had just moved out of the house he had lived in since 1957, and away from the small town he had called home for over 80 years. It was no easy decision for him, but it was one of necessity. In this exchange, I was helping him unpack his stuff the day after arriving at his new home– a modest two-room apartment that would serve as his final home address.
Together we unloaded the final container of stuff I had brought, giving us a unique opportunity to talk about things past. In the box were a few pictures and some small items that had special significance to him. I placed the black and white five-by-seven picture of my mom next to his bed as he had ordered. Among a few framed pictures of family and friends, one item caught my eye. It was a small, brown leather book no larger than four inches square, packed full of names, addresses and phone numbers. Turning back some of the pages, I saw that most of them were obviously quite old—entries written in fountain pens, and even addresses without zip codes.
“What in the world is this, Dad?” He stopped digging in his billfold long enough to look intently at what I was showing him.
