It was the Fall of 2005 when I first got the big idea. In just over six months I would be celebrating a half-century of living and breathing on planet Earth. One hundred years earlier life expectancy for a male in Alabama was only 39 years, so in the big scheme of things turning fifty as a healthy man was a milestone. We Americans always extra-celebrate birthdays #1, #10, #13, #16, #21, #40, #50, #80, and hopefully #90. After that, we celebrate the passing of months, not years.
Tag Archives: world war 2
HEROES JUST HAPPEN
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 CHIEF AND ME
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.
