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Sam Richards
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The lights on the Christmas tree seemed to sparkle with a greater luminance and the gifts were piled higher around it. The bubbling giggles of the great grandchildren and the glow of the lights were only eclipsed by the laughter of my Dad and the glint in his 77-year-old eyes. Samuel J. Richards was having one of the best Christmas celebrations we could remember in recent years. All of his family rejoiced in his energy and enthusiasm that surrounded him. The heart condition that had sapped his strength and vitality for the last several years seemed to have been forgotten as the presents were opened and the kids exploded into kisses for the grand old man surrounded by the love from which he drew strength. The family dispersed and prepared for the new-year, just a few days away, with a hope about my dad's future that we hadn't dared to consider. Four days after Christmas those unspoken hopes were dashed when paramedics transported him to the hospital with lungs filling with fluid and causing severe breathing difficulty. Developing quickly into pneumonia and adding tremendous strain on the weakened heart, the doctors were very kind when they told us of the probable outcome. During a week of trying to correct the condition, all of the family members had a chance to spend a few short minutes alone with him and say the things that were theirs and his alone. During the time that I was with my dad in the room with miles of tubes and hundreds of blinking lights and beeping alarms, I held his hand and looked into the eyes that were still able to focus on my face. The glint was still there and although the tubes prevented real conversation, Dad silently mouthed several words that only he knows. Why it made me recall fishing trips, I have no idea, but that is what came to mind. Dad would get off work on Saturday mornings after working the 3 rd shift as a loom fixer in the cotton mill just down the road from the Greer drag strip. He would spend a couple of hours sleeping and then he would load up his car and hook the 14-foot boat with a 35hp Evinrude outboard motor. We would head off to Lake Hartwell to do some afternoon bass fishing on the shallow points, before tying the boat under one of the bridges for some night fishing. Crappie fishing all night long with a lantern hanging over the side of the boat was what came to mind as I held his hand. My mind relived the feel of his hand as it gently showed me how to put a minnow on the hook and drop it over the side under the soft glow of the lantern. I felt the strength again of the hand that could fix anything. I could again feel the muscles of a man that worked with his hands his entire life. I recalled the quietness that fell over the boat when we had the lines in the water and had settled down to wait for the fish to bite. The gentle lapping of the water against the boat and little hiss of the gas lantern were the only sounds. At the time I didn't understand why I was happy to be there and that the warm that I felt wasn't because of the light from the lantern or the clothing that we wore. With my hand wrapped around the feeble hand in the hospital room, I came to understand what was keeping me warm tied up under a bridge at 4 o'clock on a cool spring morning in the 1950's. It was the love of a heart of gold that resided in the chest of a giant and it came through the strong hands hardened by a life working to provide a life for me. The hand was no longer strong but the love of the heart of gold was just as warm and it was even stronger. Those are the thoughts that came to me as I saw Dad mouthing silent words and I wonder if that was what he was really saying. A smile came to my lips as I also thought that he might just be telling me one last time: “Turn that stupid hat around”.
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