Father's Last Story
Pt. 2

On Friday, June 18, 1999, my mother and father set out for the panhandle of Texas in my mother’s power-blue Cadillac DeVille. It was still a newish car, possibly a 1996-1997 model. Dad loved to haggle with the dealers, so he was constantly “upgrading” to newer models. She was a big, heavy gas-guzzler with giant silver tail fins. He kept her cleaner than most doctors keep their operating rooms. My parents preferred it on long trips for the smooth ride the car gave. Only this ride wouldn’t be so smooth.

The panhandle of Texas, for those of you not familiar, is the North-most central part of the state. It’s the part under the “finger” of Oklahoma and the overall shape is that of three sides of a square. We call it the panhandled because it looks a bit like something you could grab, sort of a state-sized pot handle. The climate in that part of Texas is the same as of much of the arid central plains: mostly dry and hot with nothing to see and nowhere to go for miles. There is good soil in that seemingly endless dustbowl and, for those willing to spend their lives praying for the eventual rainy deluges, there is a chance of eke out a meager living as farmers. People like the Meltons and McWhorters, my mother’s kinfolk.

If you checked your calendar, you’d see that the Sunday after their departure was Father’s Day. It is of note that neither my mother’s father nor my dad’s was alive at this point. Why were my parents driving to the middle of the country before the holiday? The answer: my mother’s high school reunion for Childress High School was scheduled that weekend. An odd bit of scheduling, to be sure. The reunion was an “all alumni” type of affair and great fun to hear my parents speak of it. Given that the population of entire city was less than seven thousand people, it sounds like pretty much anyone who was anyone in Childress would be there. Most of mom’s family still lives in Childress, including several uncles and cousins I haven’t seen since I was a teenager. Both of my parents loved taking the drive up there and socializing. It had become an annual event they looked forward to, and in 1999 the alumni association had planned for it to occur on the weekend of Father’s Day.

A few miles out from a speck in the road that the locals call Henrietta, the car, that huge smooth-sailing DeVille with its giant winged taillights and just-like-new-car smelling interior, experienced a blow out on one of the tires. It occurs to me now that I never asked mom which tire happened to fail. I do know from personal experience that no matter if front or rear tire the resultant feeling to the driver is that of having hit some invisible auto. It is like being in a two car accident with only one car participating. I blew a tire on the way to New Orleans once and it almost bounced me into oncoming traffic. Scared the living bejeebus out of me. For several seconds I was not in control of a car hurling down the road at 60 mph. Those seconds feel like an eternity of helplessness. I was lucky to have gotten the car off to the side without hitting anyone. A good blow out leaves you shaken for quite some time. And my father had a history of heart trouble.

So there they were in the middle of nowhere-ville with no cell phone, no payphones and no help. Dad looked hale and hearty. He stood just a hair under six feet and the years of following doctor’s orders after his first three heart attacks kept him pretty trim. He was a powerful man who could swing a twenty-four ounce hammer like it was part of his arm. He loved carpentry, although for years it took a back seat to earning a living staffing and running kitchens. He was really something, though. We thought he would live forever.

Dad stepped out of the car and unpacked the bags out of the trunk. He pulled the jack out and the spare. For some reason only he would have known, perhaps because if was uncomfortable, he took is wallet out and laid it down on the back bumper of the car. Knowing he would be bending over a lot to pull the lug nuts off and work the jack, he took the pill container that held his nitroglycerin tablet kept for emergencies out of his shirt pocket and placed it in his front pants pocket. Then he went to work on the jack.

Likewise, the details are lost on exactly when he collapsed.

(Continued)