Early yesterday, I learned that one of the most important, influential, beloved people in my life was no longer earthside. It’s not that I thought he would live forever (I‘m old enough to know better, sadly), but it feels all wrong to live in a world where he no longer is. Hearts all across the Upstate and beyond now bear a permanent hole where his voice, phone calls, and bear hugs used to live. I don't typically like to speak for others, but I know our entire community will all miss the PD-isms that we know by heart.
I am just one of many who loved him, but he always made me feel like I was more than that. I will miss him so much, and though I don’t feel I quite have the words yet, I want to try to write them down.
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| Photo by Gwinn Davis |
I met PD when I was a sophomore in high school, right before he became my very first boss. Being a transplant to the Simpsonville/Fountain Inn area, I don’t have stories of knowing him as a youth in sports (truthfully, I didn’t play them much; that was my sister’s area of expertise), but I do vividly remember his first response to meeting him through a friend and mentor at my unofficial interview:
“You’re far too purdy to be a Moondog!”
That’s my first memory of PD: a compliment and a critique all in one (LOL).
From the very beginning, he always made me feel like I was special and deserving of whatever he considered the best. I know that so many people can relate.
As I look back on memories I have of and with him, two common themes keep coming back around: first, he always told the truth as he saw it. And he was usually right, even if it came out unpolished and unfiltered. Second, he had the most tender, people-loving heart of anyone I've ever known; being surrounded by people he loved always brought out the best in him. There are so many moments I could share, of him praising me or defending me or standing in the gap for me or challenging me, but these are the ones I think I’ll treasure the most…
Making schedules with him every season and running errands for him every off-season (he trusted me without much to go on, and I never wanted to disappoint him in response);
Him slipping me money so I could go to Salkehatchie the summer after I graduated high school when I told him I hadn’t earned enough and didn’t want to ask my family for it;
The times my knees hit the floor to pray for him whenever he or his family was most vulnerable;
Hearing a loud knock at my door (“all the way” in Greenville, in his words) a few weeks after Braxton was born and finding him on my porch because I hadn’t answered his calls in my post-partum struggles (“I been so worried about you, baby girl. I didn’t believe it for not one second when they said you almost didn’t make it, ‘course a girl as tough as you was “gon make it. But Lordy, you scared me real good, honey.”);
Him sitting on my couch holding Bethany for the first time (“Your Ma here is a good ‘un, you’ll see.”);
Walking into the stands at Braxton’s baseball game on my 36th birthday, the day before we buried my Grandpa, to unexpectedly see him sitting there (“Just so you know, I ain’t here for no baseball. I’m here for YOU. Happy birthday, Annarooski.”);
Every portrait request he made of Bethany (“Yeeeee, lawdy! Lookie here at what this professional art-eeest did just for me!”);
The times he showed up to my church over the years because he said he “woke up needin’ to be serenaded by an angel” (“I sure hope you’re singing today, baby girl…”);
Praying at his bedside and holding his strong, weathered hand for the last time ("Come say a prayer, Annarooski. Not for me *points to himself*, for them *points to his family*")
Every memory is worth more to me than gold, and I am so thankful for every phone call I answered, for every missed call I returned, for all the times he showed up at my house for a hug or a chat or a request, and for how he always made me feel far more special than I actually was. His love was loud and proud, and his presence was steady and strong.
It feels cruel that this is where my memories of PD stop. That I won’t again see his truck (or current vehicle) pull into my driveway or randomly look up to see his big ol’ smile through the window at my side porch. That he’ll no longer be standing there, anywhere, in his favorite red hat. It doesn't feel real or kind to be writing about him in past-tense either. Honestly, I wish I would have missed more of his calls so that I could have more voicemails to playback. (But on second thought, I’m glad I have memories of our conversations instead.)
He never did stop reminding me of my roots as a Moondog (aka playing sports for Mauldin Recreation).
And he never stopped reminding me that it’s not only where we come from, but where we go from there either.
I’m thankful for how his wife and sons shared him with me and what feels like millions of others.
I’m hopeful that those of us who know what it’s like to have been loved by him will keep his legacy alive by doing what he did best: loving.
And I’m certain that none of us will ever forget him and how he marked our lives.
Until we are reunited in Glory and beyond, I’ll be loving my dear PD. I’ll probably spend the rest of my life still trying to make him proud. The significance of his love will be something I live in every day for the rest of my life.
We all will, I suppose.
"Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others."
Philippians 2:3-4
