Voices in Our Heads

When my father passed away on the morning of November 18, 1997 he was a few weeks past his 69^th birthday. A campus security guard interrupted my class and told me I needed to call my brother. When Joe broke the news to me, my immediate response was to curse and throw a book across the room. I hope anger is a reasonable first response to death.

Sixteen years later I can recall that day with a calmer sadness. There are worse fates in life than a too-early exit. My father’s life had its ups and down, but on balance it was a rich, good life that most of us would gladly accept. From this side of the 21^st century, his story is worth remembering, a story of recognizing responsibility and opportunity, grabbing them both and making the most of life. For his generation, his story is familiar. For my children’s generation, it is a story known mostly through oral history. My generation is a shaky bridge linking those two generations.

John Max (the senior) was born in the depth of the Great Depression in a log house in Montford Cove on a dirt road about 15 miles from the closest town.  The house, built prior to the Civil War by his great grandfather, had neither running water nor electricity.  He came of age after WW II, left high school without a degree and went to work at Suttle’s gas station and tire store on South Main Street in Marion. He married my mother in September of 1949 while learning the craft of retreading tires. I was born in 1950 and faintly remember our rented garage apartment across the road for the tire store. It had an in-door bathroom.  Dad had a new Mercury car. It was the economic boom that followed WW II.

Mr. Suttles must have seen something in my father. He sold him a small piece of land in the woods on the hill behind his house. Dad borrowed $5000 from the bank, had timber cut from his grandfather’s farm and built a new house in the woods on that hill above Virginia Ave. 

In 1954, at 27 years-old, Dad and Harold Simmons borrowed $1500 each from Harold’s father and opened their own tire retreading shop on the other side of town. There must have been no hard feelings on the part of Mr. Suttles.  He sold Dad a couple of retreading molds, a car jack and some tools.

The tire business was an immediate money-maker. After operating for a year or two in a rented tin building, Dad and Harold bought a lot adjacent to the tin building and built a bigger, cement block building. They plowed some of their profits back into the building, adding willy-nilly rooms, sheds and carports. They worked from 7:30 a.m. to 6:30 p.m., six days a week.  They gave credit freely and

collected a few dollars a week from customers who had to replace worn-out retreads every six months. My father grew up without money, but had an instinctive sense of how to both save and spend. He squirreled away money in savings accounts while buying nice cars, dapper suits for Sundays and continually up-grading everything at home and at work.

Dad brought his younger brother, Carroll, into the business and in 1963 they borrowed $34,000 and bought out Harold Simmons – not a bad return for Harold on his $1500 investment. At the time of that business transaction I was 13 years old and very attentive to money. Dad insisted on it.

Though he was never lecturer about anything much other than money, it was easy to infer other values from how he spent the little bit of non-working time: Church every Sunday and sometimes on Wednesday, service to the Church as an usher and a deacon, Lion’s Club once a month and, in the late afternoons, grooming our small lawn and flower beds. For a boy who grew up in sparse circumstance, he had a clear vision of the life he wanted. He had many friends from business, church and civic activities, but was dedicated to his family.  He and my uncles upgraded my grandfather’s house – installed plumbing, built a bathroom on the back porch and made sure there was fuel for heating the home in the winter.

My father dedicated himself to improving the quality of life for himself and for his family. Though he never finished high school, he was determined that he would be able to pay for some kind of post-high school education for both his sons. Making good grades in school came easily to me, so I was destined for college. When my younger brother showed a passion and talent for flying airplanes, Dad paid his way to flight school. Our duty was clearly established by my father’s story: finish high school, get a post-secondary education and become independent.

I often think about my father’s influence on my life. I remember his wisdom regarding money and feel some frustration with my inability to duplicate it.  But by far, the best thing he gave to me was the opportunity to make my own decisions and live the life I wanted, which has been different for his blue-collar life. (Related anecdote: Although Dad owned the business, he always wore the same work uniforms as his employees. He once said some people wanted him to wear a coat and tie to work. He said he wasn’t that kind of boss, so he wore work clothes and did the dirty work along-side his employees.)

As Dad grew older, his temperament changed in ways that allowed qualities to surface that I had not seen in my childhood. When racial integration arrived and women’s liberation became fashionable, Dad showed more tolerance and respect than others in his circle of friends and family. As my brother and I pursued vocations other than business, he never expressed anything other than acceptance and pride in our decisions. If he was frustrated with us, he never showed it. He was a patient and tactful man, always comfortable around all kinds of people. He rarely pontificated about the way things were supposed to be. In the end, the lessons he left me were simple and demonstrated more through actions than words: work hard to be the person you want to be, take care of yourself and the people you love.

If he had lived a longer life, this Thursday, October 24^th, would be his 85^th birthday. As I struggle to end this remembrance, I don’t think he would be pleased with too much sentimentalism, theology, pride, sadness or regret. He knew that he was only partly in control of the life he lived. His run of good-money-making only lasted about 20 years. The economy changed faster than he could adapt.  He began to understand that we move imperfectly through life. If change occurred or mistakes were made, he eventually arrived at acceptance and forgiveness.  If he were looking over my shoulder, I think he would suggest that I not worry about things I cannot change or wish for things I cannot have. Sometimes the voices in our head are not totally our own.