He's Still Daddy

Even now, 46 years after his physical death in 1969, he is very much alive in me today.  I only knew him for 14 years, yet Lewis Hoxie is still Daddy, one who occupies my thoughts, shapes my opinions and attitudes, and whose examples of tenacity and faith fortify me with resolve in times of struggle. 

Daddy was born on Detering Street in the "West End."  That's what we called that area of Houston between Memorial Drive and Washington Avenue, just west of Downtown Houston.  His grandfather owned much of the land in that area in the late 1890s and early 1900s.  It is said that as they matured, Great Grandfather gave his children a little plot of land to call their own.  It was in the little house on my grandmothers lot that Daddy was born. 

I remember Daddy telling me that he worked for a chemical company, driving a truck until he was "let go."  Back then, one was only allowed to do that kind of work for a while because of the potential for exposure to dangerous chemicals; then one was simply "let go."  That was before my time.  For the time I had Daddy he rented a lot on Telephone Road, just inside I45 South, where he sold soils, sand and fertilizer.  I've told that story before and won't repeat it here. 

This being Fathers' Day, however, all of the posts and news snippets I've observed have caused me to express my appreciation for Daddy in this public forum.  I've not seen a picture of him in decades, and other than his last driver's license, a full image of Daddy in a suit and a really fine hat, and a snapshot of him sitting in his dump truck with the door open and my brother standing on the ground in front of him, I've never seen any other pictures of him.  Yet, he is as vivid in my mind's eye as I write this, as if he is sitting . . . right there . . . on the edge of my desk. 

Sometimes I cannot help but wonder at how powerful a father he was to have made an impression on me that has lasted more that four times the years I actually knew him in the flesh.  I guess that's what daddies are supposed to do with whatever time they have:  teach lessons that stand the test of time and make impressions that last far beyond their earthly years.   That's what my Daddy did. 

It would really be nice to have had Daddy longer, but it is better to have had him for a little while than someone else for decades, who would not have been Daddy to me the way Lewis Hoxie was, and still is.

For My Brer on Father’s Day

Brer is my brother, John.  When we were kids he was overly fond of that very dark,  highly viscous fluid known as Brer Rabbit syrup.   That is why I call him Brer.  Sometimes we would run out of the “good” syrup and rather than suffer the agony of ingesting that thick stuff, I would do without the pancakes or waffles our mom had prepared.  From scratch (how else? ).   Anyway, this is not about my inclination toward thin syrup or my mother’s culinary wizardry; it is about my Brer.  And yes, it is Father’s Day.


For the record, I have written about fathers in prior blogs.  On 5 November 2008, I posted Real Dads of the Darker Nation – Part 1, and on 9 November, Remembering Daddy, writing of my father, who is still very much a part of me, though he died 44 years ago.  On 21 June 2009 I posted Real Dads of the Darker Nation – Part III, writing of men who become fathers to the children of another.  And on 24 February and 13 December 2010, and 8 December 2011 I posted writings about my Sweet Pea’s father, Charles Richards. 


Today, while thinking of my father, Charles, and my friends who assumed the role of father in the absence of fathers, I also think of my brother.  Somehow, Brer has morphed into the patriarch of our little Hoxie clan – not because he is the oldest surviving male – but because he has truly become just that.  Sons do not always assume responsible roles in the stead of their predecessors.  Samuel, the prophet, who anointed young David, son of Jesse and later to become king of Israel, had, to put it bluntly, lousy boys.  They were unfit to succeed their father in God’s work.  I am sure without much thought, you, the reader, can think of the mishandling of well established business by succeeding generations – some you may even know personally.  The deal is, all are not fit to walk the path or assume the responsibilities of their predecessors.  We Hoxies fared well in this regard.  Lewis and Lillie conceived and gave birth to John Chester.  As it turns out, that was a good thing.  


Brer is more than a brother; he is my earthly rock.  He gives wise counsel, listens as I verbalize my wildest thoughts – without judging, solves problems, and mediates disputes fairly (and, yes, mediators who help others resolve conflicts still have their own with which to contend).  He even understands my warped sense of humor (a major plus).


Brer is a father and grandfather of natural, adopted and blended-in children; he claims them all without distinction.  And for him, father is not just a label.  He reminds me a lot of our father with his stern exterior and kind heart – like Napoleons – that hard candy with the soft, chewy stuff inside.  He even looks like our father, a little slight on the vertical side, large eyes, strong jaw, and everything else.  Brer has shown me decades of stability and dependability.  On top of all that, he is a really, really smart guy.  And to beat all of that, he knows the Word from cover to cover, and will remind me, quoting book, chapter and verse, when appropriate. 


Weird – perhaps Brer is also psychic.  He just called with an early birthday greeting, and to invite me to lunch tomorrow.  Is he peering over my shoulder?  Spooky.  :)


None of this is to say Brer is perfect (there is none perfect but Jesus, the Christ), or even good (there is none good except God my Heavenly Father). Brer’s got his little idiosyncracies and warts; still, for a sentient  being who puts his pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us, Brer is pretty much the cream of the crop.  It is good to have a brother who not only shares the same blood, but shares himself.  Like Lewis Hoxie, a real father of the darker nation, so goes his son, my brother, John.  

Random Thoughts of My Father on His Birthday

Having lived three times as long as I had his physical presence in my life, I am still awestruck by how much he gave me in the 14 years we had before his body ceased to function.  Even today, for me, Lewis Hoxie is very much alive.  He is always with me.  My words are often his words. My thoughts, attitudes and opinions are so much like his.  Some folks who know me may not think those are such good things; how very short-sighted they are!

When I was a toddler he added a handle to the screen door leading to our front porch, positioned to be within my grasp, giving me freedom to go from the house to the porch in my own time and way.

He allowed me sips of Mogen David Concord Grape wine with my Oreo cookie (in retrospect, that combination grosses me out, but back then . . .).

He removed the seeds from my melons, diced and speared them with toothpicks and served them to me so that I could pretend the fruity cubes were hors d' oveures.

I stood on his feet and walked with him.

I met him at the kitchen door when he arrived home from work.

I gave him exclusive rights to kiss the dimple in the middle of my forehead and he gladly accepted.

No one in the neighborhood bothered me because they knew I belonged to him.  If some poor soul had a lapse of memory, a simple "I'm going to tell my daddy" was sufficient to make all scatter.

He let me drive from the front gate to the garage opening.  Okay, it was less than 100 feet, but still . . . .

He took our family to church every Sunday.  I sometimes sat with him in the seating reserved for deacons during worship.  No one ever asked me to move.

He only had to make me go outside and cut a switch just a couple of times.  I thank God for the switch -- and the strap; I figure they were a lot easier to take then than being behind bars would be now.  

As long as I didn't have a fever or some childhood ailment -- or my toe wasn't tagged -- we all went to church on Sundays, first for Sunday School, then worship, then back in the evening for Training Union.  I thank God for Training Union.  I can find scriptures in the Bible without looking at the table of contents, and many I know now because my father and mother taught us decades ago.  I can speak, sing or play piano in the presence of a few or a few thousand.  All because my daddy took -- not sent -- his family to church.

My brother is smart, solid, strong, dutiful, responsible, supportive and loving.  In other words, he is what a man should be.   My brother is one of the most upright men I know.  When I look at Brer, or think of Brer, I also see or think of my father. 

Daddy did not have a lot of money.  He worked hard and provided for his family.  The house he built 60 years ago has weathered every Houston storm without damage and still stands solidly today.  We were always well fed, well clothed, well nurtured and well loved.  While money can buy the food and clothing, no currency is sufficient to purchase the care and love my father bestowed upon his family.  In that regard, we were -- and are -- wealthier than most.  

My father tolerated little nonsense from people.  I am very much like him in that way and don't mind it -- not one bit.  

That is enough for now.  There is no grand ending because Daddy's story continues.  As long as there is a Hoxie limb from his branch of the tree, or a twig from a limb of his branch, or a fruit that fell from a twig from a limb of his branch of that tree, my daddy will be around.  It would be nice, though, if he could kiss my third dimple just once more.

Happy birthday, Daddy.

Remembering Daddy

Lewis Hoxie, Jr. was born 102 years ago today, in his home on Detering Street just off what is now Memorial Drive.  At the time of his birth, his maternal grandfather, Anthony Gonder, owned acreage in that area, now priced well beyond my ability to pay.  I think of my father often.  Even though he died when I was 14 years old, he left a lot of himself in me.

For my short stint with Daddy, he was self-employed.  He rented a lot on Telephone Road near the Gulf Freeway (just north of the railroad track, next to Manning Machine Shop).  He sold soils, fertilizers and sand.

As I wrote "He sold soils, fertilizers and sand" I remember that I wrote of my father in my never-completed series REAL DADS OF THE DARKER NATION, so I went back to my archives and found the article, coincidentally published on November 5, 2008.  Rather than repeat myself here, I commend the reader to that blog.  [I've always wanted to "commend" someone to a writing -- it's what lawyers do when they're supposed to be presenting in those much-too pricey continuing legal education courses that are required for lawyers and board certified paralegals.  I've often wondered, why stand in front of me, all motor-mouthed, if all you're going to do is "commend" me to the paper?  Anyway, back to Daddy.

Stuff my Daddy taught me:

- If you see something that's not right, it's your responsibility to fix it, and if you can't, make the situation known so that it can be fixed.

- If you're big enough to invite someone to "whatever", you'd better be big enough to pick up the tab.

- If you want to eat, go to work.  Daddy once "floored" a guy who announced to my father that he was "retiring" and "going on welfare."

- Don't talk ugly around the children (especially his).  Daddy once jumped a fence after asking a guy next door to hold down the foul language because his kids were playing outside.  The guy's response was more vituperative utterings, so Daddy jumped the fence and belted him.

- Prayer meeting is not just for when we're at church.  So we had prayer at home -- the whole famn damily.

- A man can only take so much.  A woman, too.

One of the great things about being a daughter of Lewis Hoxie, Jr., was being able to roam the neighborhood freely and not be bothered by anyone.   Just the suggestion that I might tell my daddy was sufficient for the biggest neighborhood bully to leave me alone.  Daddy wasn't as tall as my mom (and she was 5'8" back then), but he was stocky and as solid as a brick wall.

Was my Daddy perfect?  Absolutely not!  But he was my Daddy.  He is still my Daddy.  And even 40 years, 9 months and 1 week after his death, I still think of him.

Real Dads of the Darker Nation Pt III

I recently met a man who has two children -- a son and a daughter. He refers to them freely in those terms: my son . . . my daughter. What I later learned was that he fathered neither of his children in the biological sense. Yet he raised them as his own and in every meaningful sense of the word, he fathered them.

So what is fathering all about? Do we ask that about mothering? I think not -- at least not as often. Many think of fathers as the go-to guy for money and things -- stuff. Sadly, many women who intentionally allow themselves to be impregnated don't have a clue as to the significance their Johnny Appleseed should play in their children's lives. And as sad, many men who plant those seeds think of the products of their acts as nothing more than notches on a bedpost, something that gives them bragging rights. What utter rubbish. But, as usual, I digress; moving right along . . .

The man of whom I write today reminds me of my own daughter's father, right down to his choosing the right schools -- even the ones that our tax dollars don't fund and require a hefty outlay of cash. He has been with them for all of the joys and sorrows, and triumphs and tragedies of their childhood. He was not just the go-to guy for money and stuff, but for encouragement, assurance, discipline and love.

He has been Father to them for 25 years of their 30-plus-year-old lives. I wonder if they realize how special that is? I wonder do they realize he is so much more their real father than their real father. I wonder if they make the distinction? I don't know, but these are my hopes and the substance of my prayer for them -- and him: that if they don't know now, they will soon realize that he carried them as his children as God carried the Israelites into their Promised Land; that he sacrificed for them as any father who loves and cares for his children would do -- as my father did for me and my daughter's father did for her; that the father they had and have in him was and is their blessing from God.

And while the world might say blood is thicker than water, it is water that brings refreshment and life wherever it goes. In their childhood they drank freely from the fountain of his fathering. As adults, may they remember the depth of his love for them. He chose to father them. There was no trickery or deceit -- no surprise or blaming faulty contraceptive drugs or devices. It was simply a choice. He could have chosen to walk away -- that would have been easy. But instead he chose to take them as his own, to love them. And by doing so he willingly exposed himself to not just the joys and triumphs of fatherhood, but the sorrows and tragedies as well.

To all men everywhere who are fathers to children of their seed or another's, who choose to take on the challenging responsibility of fatherhood in meaningful, tangible and intangible ways -- HAPPY FATHER'S DAY.

Real Dads of the Darker Nation Part II

Warning -- this is not going to be pleasant.  

There are dads out there who are nothing more than 20th and 21st century Johnny Appleseeds.  They spread their seeds wherever they go, many of them sprouting.  While these sprouts get some kind of nourishment, they get very little nurturing from their male planters.  The Johnny Appleseed types don't stick around to provide nurturing, and contribute little to the sprouts' nourishment, hence the need for motions for contempt in family courts across the nation.  

Many of the little sprouts, despite their lack of proper attention from their dads, grow to be not just big and strong, but mature, responsibile, compassionate, caring and considerate adults -- like the 44th POTUS.  Other sprouts grow to be big and strong too, but they become drug dealers and/or abusers of drugs, their women, children, and anyone unfortunate to cross their paths, oftentimes perpetuating the abusive behaviors of whomever planted their seeds.  

And then there are those who are chameleons, taking on whatever persona suits them at the moment.  These are the ones we should all stay away from.  They are very dangerous, and any contact with them can be lethal.  One minute they can be the most righteous, holier-than-thou, Bible thumping, first-row-in-the-sanctuary-sitting, always-shouting and raising holy hands men, all the while wondering why no one else feels what they feel, and grieving over the seeds they planted that grew into those who are the exact opposite of the 44th POTUS.  The next minute they can be as cold, dispassionate, uncaring, and sociopathetic as any rightfully convicted serial-killer-death-row inmate.  They can parasitically suck one's resources of every kind and character dry, lay waste to lives and think nothing of it, even as they counsel others, employing Biblical principals to help them live theirs better.

Dealing with the first two "dad" types -- the 44th POTUS and the exact counterparts of same, is no big deal.  Why?  Because, basically, WYSIWYG is the catch phrase of the day for them:  what you see is what you get.  But beware of the third "dad" type -- the chameleon.   You will never know what persona he will take.  What you will learn, however, is that no matter how wrong he is about any situation, everyone under the sun will be to blame -- but never him.  He will break the law and try to justify it.  He will lie to the courts and hide behind some duped or duplicitous or just plain old greedy lawyer.   But take heart:  as my dad (see Real Dads of the Darker Nation Part 1) was known for saying -- 

• time will tell
• you might get by but you won't get away

So a word to all the chameleon types of the world:  your time is coming.