Uncle Hartsough

Both of my parents grew up in rather large families. My mother grew up as one of nine siblings. My father was one of eight siblings, which was not unusual for that day and time. Needless to say, including spouses, they supplied my siblings and me with a gallimaufry (I love using obscure words) of aunts and uncles. 

Since my father was, by far, the youngest in his family (Surprise!), and mother was next to youngest, some of my aunts and uncles had passed away before I was old enough to know them. The ones I knew were characters, funny and entertaining to be with. I loved them all. They were true Kentuckians and, what I would call, classy hillbillies. And that is a good thing – trust me on that. But a couple of them stood out. One was my favorite uncle, Hartsough (Heart-saw) Redding.

My mother said this about him in an interview in 1996.

“The next brother was Hartsough, who was the sweetest person and no one was any kinder.  Even as a little bitty kid I can remember him giving me things. I always hated Mother's Day when I wore a white flower. I just don't think that Mothers deserve all the credit they are given. Motherlove is supposed to be the strongest thing in the world but is a lot of malarkey. A lot of them totally neglect their children, abuse them, and everything else. Anyhow, I didn't like Mother's Day but was sitting in church when Hartsough came in with some of his college friends. When he saw me he told his friends to go on and he came and sat with me. That was just the kind of thing he would do. He was all anyone could ask for in a brother, including very critical of all my dates. I had one date that Hartsough got behind and brushed off his shoulders (indicating that he was getting rid of the hayseeds).”

His full name was Gano Hartsough Redding. And he was one of my favorite people in the entire world. I remember him as a tall handsome man with an incredible head of wavy white hair… a million-dollar smile… a deep, room-filling laugh… and he was just plain fun to be around. He told me his life stories and not quite dirty jokes, gave me the kind of gifts no one else would, kept my secrets and was my advocate to my parents. He teased me unmercifully and I adored him. He was born in 1908 and died in 1965 and he was about 42 and I was around five years old when he appeared on my radar. It seemed to me that he just showed up one day. As I remember it, (probably incorrectly) he starting coming to Sunday dinner each week. He was one of my best childhood friends and I loved him deeply.

One of the ways my family shows affection is by teasing each other and giving each other nicknames. The more you tease someone, the more you love them. Uncle Hartsough teased me unmercifully all of my growing up years. I loved it and teased him right back.

He had a personal and private nickname he called me, “T.H.” For the

same reason he never told my mother what it meant, I can’t tell you what it means. (You are welcome to send me your guesses.) Another nickname I picked up, which had something to do with my teenaged enthusiasm about doing yard work and others of the thousands of projects my father constantly thought up for my brother and I to do, was “Hard-work.” My uncle could be brutal, and I loved every minute of it. As a testament to our view of each other’s work ethic, for several Christmases and birthdays we “surprised” each other with a bottle of Slone’s Liniment. It advertised itself as a product that would relieve those achy muscles one experiences after a hard day’s work. We must have passed that tired old bottle back and forth for five years. Both of us were infuriated when one of my family members actually opened and used the stuff.

The first thing one noticed about Hartsough was that he had only one arm. It was a handicap he never allowed to slow him down for a second. He lived a no-excuses life. The story goes that when he was leaving the hospital after losing his arm, the family tried to dress him. He immediately kicked them out of the room and dressed himself. It took him almost an hour. When I compare notes with siblings, we are not sure exactly how it happened. We are pretty sure that he lost his left arm in a traffic accident. Possibly because he had his arm hanging out the window while he was driving. The reason we aren’t sure is that his “accident” was used as the example for why we children “had  better get your arms back in this car like I told you to.”

Traffic accidents, to make a huge understatement, powerfully impacted my uncle’s life. On one of his frequent trips to Lexington, Kentucky, he was run off the road and the car rolled over. His younger sister, Perk, a blue-eyed blonde beauty with a personality to match her name and the family favorite, was injured in the accident. Hartsough flagged down a passing motorist and rushed Perk to a Lexington hospital. He carried his precious cargo into the hospital, presented her to the first nurse he met and told her to help his little sister. The nurse is quoted as saying, “Young man, we can’t help her, she’s dead.”

Needless to say, this event crushed him and changed the course of his life. Alcoholism runs in my family on my mother’s side. After this accident,, Hartsough became the prime example of what a family problem alcoholism can be. Out of this period of his life came some amazingly funny and sad stories of his adventures and misadventures. A friend tells of dropping him off after a night of drinking and Hartsough was so inebriated that he started up the front steps of the wrong house. His friend jumped out of the car and intercepted my uncle at the top of the steps. Hartsough didn’t even recognize him and inquired, “Excuse me, sir, could you direct me to the home of the Redding family?” His friend did just that. One night he made it to the right house but the wrong room. Instead of turning left at the end of the hallway into the kitchen, he turned right, stumbled down the two steps into the maid's room and fell into bed with her. She came up out of bed screaming, brandishing the pistol she kept under her pillow for just such emergencies. Fortunately, no one died that night.

Family myth has it that Hartsough would “borrow” the family car for frequent trips from his home in Owenton, Kentucky, to Lexington. To keep his father from realizing that his car had been “borrowed”, Hartsough would back up all of the way from Lexington to Owenton to run the mileage that had accumulated during the trip off of the odometer. For most of those trips they say he would not have passed a sobriety test. How he lived we will never know.

God was good to Hartsough and he met a gorgeous young woman named Thelma Cook. Aunt Thelma was a beautiful, genteel, Southern lady with a lovely smile, infectious laugh and a great sense of humor. Hartsough fell madly in love with her, as did the rest of his family. Thelma loved Hartsough and agreed to marry him. Her only provision was that he give up the alcohol. That is a tough choice for an alcoholic to make. Alcohol – Thelma. Hartsough thought about it for five or six seconds and wisely chose Thelma.

Thelma, nobody’s fool, demanded that Hartsough prove that he had truly made a choice, would put action to his words, so they had a waiting period before the wedding in which he would abstain from the use of alcohol. After only about 25 years, they were married. From the day of his proposal, Hartsough remained dry for the rest of his life. During that time he became a leader in his local church. It is amazing what God and a good woman can do in a man’s life. It was during these sober years that I came to know my beloved uncle.

When I was playing Little League baseball, Uncle Hartsough volunteered as an umpire. Though he had the laid-back temperament for the job, it must have been challenging for a one-armed man. It so happened that my uncle was behind the plate when I hit a home run. My mother said it was hilarious watching him try to pretend he did care while trying to hide the huge smile on his face.

My precious uncle died of throat cancer while I was in college. Like everyone else in our family, Hartsough smoked heavily all of his life. I, too, smoked two packs of cigarettes every day. It wasn’t long after watching the life one of the loves of my life cut short and watching the agony he went through, that I gave up smoking.

My Uncle Hartsough’s life dynamically impacted my life. So did his death.

Copyright © 2019, William T. McConnell, All Rights Reserved

Bill McConnell is an Interim Minister, a Church Transformation consultant and a Christian Leadership Coach. He is a frequent speaker at Church Transformation events. His latest book on church transformation is DEVELOPING A SIGNIFICANT CHURCH and is available at Westbow Press. He can be contacted @ bill45053@gmail.com. Connect with him on Facebook @ William T. McConnell or on Twitter @billmc45053 or visit his Amazon Author Page @ Amazon author page

My White Privilege

Whenever racial issues become the news of the day, I am always surprised by the number of educated white people who go online on Facebook, Twitter or blogs to talk about and apologize for their “white privilege.” For those not familiar with the concept, it has been defined like this: “White privilege (or white skin privilege) is a term for societal privileges that benefit white people in western countries beyond what is commonly experienced by the non-white people under the same social, political, or economic circumstances. These privileges are unearned and are distributed based on values of the dominant group, which in the west is white people.”

I fully realize that I will be attacked as ill informed, ignorant, unrealistic or even racist. But I will not fall in line to apologize for being white – worse yet, a white male. It is who I am and I am okay with that. There are many things I should and have apologized for but that is not one of them.

In my opinion our culture has collectively lost its mind. Most of us are victims. We are victims of crime, abuse, being mistreated, having our feelings hurt, not being given a fair shake, failing, lacking an education, being passed over for promotions, not being given what we are entitled to, and the list is endless. Those of us who not victims, we are the perpetrators. Whatever injustice or pain the victims in our society have suffered is our fault. And when looking for the guilty I find, being an old white male, there is a huge target on my back. We are responsible for every wrong anyone is suffering or ever has suffered in the past. Tag, we’re it. So, of course, I am the poster child for white privilege.

And I will certainly own that. I am very much aware of my white privilege. Let me tell you about it.

I was brought up by a father who was the fourth generation of our family in America. Like lots of the Irish, my kin came to America to find relief from the potato famine. My branch of the family (Yes I am from Kentucky and yes my family tree does have branches.) settled in around eastern Kentucky. Like many from Ireland, my family knew how to live off the land so they looked for a rural area and started farming. My father was from a family of eight who grew up scratching a living from the land in Robertson County, Kentucky. The family owned very little land, rented a house, a few farm animals and no slaves. There was no electricity in the house until my father was almost grown. They had no tractors but, instead, did farm work with horses and mules. Tillable land was in short supply; most of it was bottom land near creeks and the Licking River. They had little cash but ate well. My grandmother cooked on a wood stove her entire life. Wood stoves also heated the house.

My father, the youngest of his siblings, was the first and only family member to go to college. He worked on the college farm to pay for his education. After graduating and marrying my mother he worked for a few years and started his family. Like most young men of the time, his life was put on hold so he could serve his country in World War II. After the war, he went back to work and put himself through law school at night. With that degree under his belt, he went to work for an insurance company.

He made a good living so I and my siblings lived a good life. Many consider that my white privilege. But this is what I consider my white privilege. I was raised in an intact family by two loving parents who insisted I toe the line. Their expectations were high and consistent. They cracked the whip. Some of the things they taught me and some of their expectations of me were:

Priorities: God, family, others, job.

Be respectful of my elders and people in authority – teachers, coaches, police, and pastors.

No matter what I attempted (school, sports, friendships, dating) I was expected to put in my best effort.

If you start something, finish it.

Any grade less than a B resulted in being grounded.

Loving my siblings was not an option.

Never raise your hand to a woman.

Do not go in debt for something that does not increase in value.

Follow the Ten Commandments. All of them. Period. End of story.

Never lie. You can’t do business with a liar.

Give generously.

If you can’t like someone, at least be kind and pleasant.

Get enough education to enable you to support yourself and your family.

You don’t have a sense of humor until you can laugh at yourself.

By many standards I have lived a full and successful life. I have a great job I love doing. I have a great wife, awesome kids and many precious grandchildren. I am not rich by any way you want to measure it. But we are comfortable. And I attribute much of my success to my white privilege.

Also, I have been hearing about African American parents having to have a conversation with their children about interacting with the police. I thought all parents had those conversations. My parents certainly did. Theirs went something like this. “Don’t break the law in the first place and you won’t have to fear people in law enforcement. If a policeman attempts to pull you over, stop as soon as possible. If a police officer addresses you, do what they tell you to do and be respectful. Don’t talk back. If you are wrongfully accused, that will be worked out in the court system. Be careful who you hang out with. Make sure they can see your hands. Call me if you need me.”

Again white privilege. It is really difficult to get crossways with the police if one follows my father’s advice. I feel certain his advice would work no matter what your ethnic background. In fact, my father’s advice sounds much like the advice given by Chris Rock in this video. NOTICE – DON’T WATCH THE VIDEO IF YOU ARE OFFENDED BY FOUL LANGUAGE. I WARNED YOU.

There you have my white privilege. And I’m not going to apologize for it. Cause it’s not my fault. I am a victim of my childhood. My parents did it to me.

Copyright © 2014, William T. McConnell, All Rights Reserved

Bill McConnell is Senior Minister at Lindenwood Christian Church in Memphis, Tennessee and is a Church Transformation consultant and a Christian Leadership Coach. He is a frequent speaker at Church Transformation events. His latest book on church transformation is DEVELOPING A SIGNIFICANT CHURCH and is available at Westbow Press. He can be contacted @ bill45053@gmail.com. Connect with him on Facebook @ William T. McConnell or on Twitter @billmc45053 or visit his Amazon Author Page @ Amazon

Is This Any Way to Spend Christmas?

How do you spend Christmas Eve and Christmas?

Our traditions are fun, often amazing and sometimes just a bit bizarre.  As a kid I remember our family went to visit some of my parent’s old friends, then gathered at home for a reading of the Christmas Story in Luke and went to bed. Each of us took a lit candle to our room and if it was out in the morning it meant Santa had come.

 In the name of family or tradition, we do some of the most irritating, tiring, counterproductive things without ever thinking about them. Rushing from house to house for gift opening, trying to wedge in a visit to church, eating huge meals at our house, the parents’ house and then at the in-laws. The adults are all tired and irritable and the kids more than cranky. Does your family take a family portrait each Christmas? We try. It sounds like a good idea, what with everyone there and dressed up. But in the rush of getting everything else we have on our agendas done, sometimes things just don’t work out. It is like herding cats. Most families cram in too much to do and too little time in which to do it.

 What is often designed to be fun ends up being a huge pain. Even in the church, often what is designed to be a blessing goes awry and ends up being a curse. I love the old story of the frustrated choir director who was preparing for the Christmas Cantata and dealing with veriy spotty attendance by the choir. At the final practice, in an attempt to reprimand the wayward choir members, he took a moment before the final practice to acknowledge the accompanist, who had been to every practice. She stood and thanked the choir director and then said, “I thought it was the least I could do since I can’t make to the performance.”

Let’s take a look at the first Christmas as recorded by Luke.

“In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. (This was the first census that took place while Quirinius was governor of Syria.) And everyone went to his own town to register.

So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”

Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,  “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.”

 When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.” So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told.” (Luke 2:1-20)

 I have heard that story all my life. And, like most, I have an unrealistic view of it that has been influenced by movies, paintings, Christmas cards and more. I have concluded that my view of this story is unrealistic. Let’s take a look at this story with fresh eyes and a little more reality.

Mary and Joseph were living through a difficult time and things went from bad to worse. First of all they had to deal with this wild story that she was pregnant but she was still a virgin. I am sure that went over real big in the old home village. There is little doubt that their families were angry and ashamed. Mary had to put up with the gossip and the looks people gave her. She decided to get out of town and go visit relatives. Joseph had to put up with the men of the village making crude jokes about his wife to be and the guys making fun of him for believing her story. No doubt they were social outcasts and the butt of lots of jokes. Life must have been pretty miserable.

 And then the government got involved. Life never gets easier when the government gets in the mix. Caesar decides he wants everyone counted to make sure all of the possible taxes were being collected. For us the census means that we have to deal with a stranger showing up at the door and being asked a few irritating, invasive questions. It was not that simple and easy for them. They had to travel to the town that their ancestors were from to be registered. Where would that be for you? In my case I would have to head to Robertson County, Kentucky, and try to find some lodging in Mt. Olivet. Mt. Olivet is about the same size as Bethlehem was then. Last time I visited there were no hotels or motels. There wasn’t even a gas station.

Things are not going real well and then on top of everything else, Mary and Joseph have to travel to Bethlehem. The distance from Nazareth to Bethlehem is about 70 miles as the crow flies, but the winding mountain trails that Joseph and Mary had to travel made the trip about 90 miles, and the climb was about 1,300 feet up hill. At walking pace it would take them more than a week to cover that distance and height. Now there’s a great trip if you are on the verge of having a baby. I’ll bet Mary was horribly uncomfortable.

 After over a week on the road they finally got to their destination, hungry, tired, thirsty, sore, sunburned, and bloated beyond belief. And that was Joseph. I’ll bet Mary didn’t feel all that good either. The town was packed with tourists and they couldn’t find a room. I can’t believe Joseph didn’t call 1-800-Go-Judea and make some hotel reservations. He was checking at the front desk of every hotel, motel and bed and breakfast in town and getting the big NO. It must have been terribly frustrating for both of them when he went back to the donkey and to report his lack of success. It is a wonder this marriage hung together.

 Finally Joseph returned to the donkey overjoyed with the great news that they have permission from the innkeeper to sleep in his barn. If I had been in Mary’s shoes I would have said, “THE BARN!! You want me to sleep in a barn. I am about to drop a kid here and want me to try to sleep on straw with a bunch of animals?” Don’t you just know that both of them were thinking, “Is this any way to spend Christmas?”

 And then the baby decides to show up. They are both appalled and thrilled. There is nothing like a baby to make things better – NOT. Babies are wonderful but they do not make life easier. Then the shepherds show up. Of course, they had not planned on uninvited company. And then there was the Bris to plan, the people to invite, and a Rabbi to line up for the ceremony.

 Generally speaking it seems that Mary and Joseph didn’t have much say in how the first Christmas came to be. But as we study the prophecy surrounding the birth of the Messiah we can see that God’s plan was at work.

 Mary and Joseph seemed to have little choice, but when it comes to Christmas we really do have choices to make. I want to strongly encourage you to relax and enjoy the peace, wonder, joy and power of this season. Don’t let yourself get so busy that you miss the center of it all. Don’t let others set your agenda and your schedule and bully you out of being in the presence of God during this time of year that we celebrate God Himself coming to be with us.

 Don’t do Christmas in such a way that you catch yourself thinking, “Is this any way to spend Christmas?”

 Copyright © 2014, William T. McConnell, All Rights Reserved

 Bill McConnell is Senior Minister at Lindenwood Christian Church in Memphis, Tennessee and is a Church Transformation consultant and a Christian Leadership Coach. He is a frequent speaker at Church Transformation events. His latest book on church transformation is DEVELOPING A SIGNIFICANT CHURCH and is available at Westbow Press. He can be contacted @ bill45053@gmail.com. Connect with him on Facebook @ William T. McConnell or on Twitter @billmc45053 or visit his Amazon Author Page @ Amazon

I Love a Parade

In memory and in honor of my father, each year, at the first of the year, I repost this article. It is the first writing I ever had published.

As a pastor, it is not uncommon for me to be around and able to observe a family lose a loved one to a progressive disease like cancer. Always painful, it is also wonderfully touching and life enriching to see love shared, life made more meaningful because of its brevity, every drop squeezed from each moment because they are suddenly of very short supply. I am touched and I am reminded of going through that process with my father.

My father died over 20 years ago and rarely does a week pass that I don't wish I had a chance to talk to him. A few years after his death, I was motivated to write the first piece I ever had published. Allow me to share those thoughts with you at the beginning of this year

I love a good parade. I even like bad parades. I have seen both kinds. Some really stick in my memory.

The 1970 Memorial Day Parade in Waddy, Kentucky (yes, that is the town's real name) immediately springs to mind. The town folks had been talking about the Memorial Day Parade for weeks before the event and I was getting rather excited about it. One couldn't spend any time in the local grocery store without the conversation turning to the parade. Plans and preparations were being made. It seemed that most of the people in the little town were going to be participating.

My family and I passed up several offers so we could be sure to be there for the "big" parade. I will admit that the offers we received were not all that tempting. But we did make a conscious decision to be around for the big parade. At the appointed time we took our places on the sidewalk of the main drag. I must be fair and tell you that Waddy in 1970 was a community of about 255 people and the main drag was the only drag. And there were not very many feet of sidewalk to get on. Since most of the residents were in the parade, finding a place to watch it wasn't difficult. We didn't have to come down the night before and stake out our space. Showing up ten minutes before parade time worked out fine.

We didn't have to wait long before the action started. Here came the parade. It was absolutely wonderful. Strung out for several feet behind the town's antique and only fire truck were two shiny, brand spanking new pick up trucks. The owners had obviously spent a lot of time washing and waxing their pride and joy. One of the trucks was pulling the only float in the parade which was carrying some of the local veterans riding on a tobacco wagon. The other truck was hauling a young girl – perhaps she was Miss Waddy or Miss Shelby County. The entire local Cub Scout Pack, all six of them, were the color guard. There were bicycles and wagons and baby strollers and balloons and crept paper and sparklers and dogs, some horses and a couple of ponies. My, it was grand. One the finest parades I have ever seen. My heart was touched. I wouldn't have missed it.

There have been several other parades in my life. All of them were larger and longer. Many were more exciting and colorful and entertaining. Some were so long they became boring. A couple of them have been just plain stupid. No offense is intended (Really) but have you ever attended a gay rights parade? There is a bad idea. But none of them grander... except one. That is the parade that wandered through my parents' kitchen in the fall of 1986.

My father was very busy that fall dying of cancer of the Godknowswhat. The doctors couldn't tell where the cancer had originated but it wasn't difficult to see where it had gone. It was everywhere and Dad was so skinny by then that much of it stuck out on various parts of his body. It was horrible to watch a strong, robust, commanding man reduced to a skeleton struggling to live through each day seeking to find ways to have as little pain as possible. It was horrible, but riveting – like those slasher horror films young teens flock to watch. It was also a wonderful time of quiet conversations and opportunities to do for my father; a man who had always done for others, especially his children. Though the role reversal was a bit challenging for both of us, it was a wonderful God gift to be able to serve my father during a very difficult time.

As cancer took more and more from him and more of him from us, we were completely centered on his well being. Though not unusually tall, my dad was very strong. As a high school kid he had a job picking up milk cans from the local dairy farmers. He could hang on the back of the truck with one hand, lean out and grab a milk can in the other and swing it up into the back of the truck. That is about 140 pounds per can. Whoa, strong guy. Dad played baseball and basketball well and taught his boys how to play.

Because the degeneration of his physical body and our all consuming struggle to make him as comfortable as possible had so captured my attention, the parade that had begun had been passing before my eyes long before I noticed it.

But one those beautiful cloudless, bright blue sky, breezy autumn afternoons it burst upon my sight. For a parade, it was difficult to spot. There were no fire trucks or Cub Scouts or floats or marching bands or riders on horseback. There were no pretty young beauty queens seeking our attention or politicians seeking our votes. Most of the faces in this parade were familiar to me, although some were strangers. But they all knew my father. He was the "theme" that held this parade together. This was a parade of people, passing through my parent's spacious, warm, welcoming kitchen, in front of the reclining chair that had become Dad's chief place of residence.

They came from near and far. As close as the next door neighbor and as far as several states away. They all came to say the same thing in many different ways. They came to say, "Thank you, Mr. McConnell. You have made a difference in my life." What a wonderful thing to say! "Thanks for living and letting me be a part of your life. Your life counted for something in my life." "You have lived a life that was significant because your life powerfully impacted my life."

And what a strange mix of people it was that carried this message to my father. There were the preachers and church leaders from all over the state that Dad had prayed with and for and taught so much about how to be sensitive to the needs of others and the leading of the Lord. He helped them have more than a theoretical Christianity. There was the alcoholic who lived next door who was snubbed by the community but was proud to be called "friend" by "Mr. Mack". There were the young men of the community that had looked to my father for advice and counsel on subjects ranging from family budgeting to how to win an argument without losing a friend. There was the single mother and her children who were helped through some hard times by a man they hardly knew. There were the old people that came to thank the man who brought them meals when they were too sick to cook for themselves. There were the business associates that had worked with him for over a quarter of a century – folks who really knew him and thus knew him to be a man of integrity, courage, compassion, wisdom and humor. There were his law clients who received much more than just good legal advice from their attorney. There were the students from more than 30 years of Sunday school classes that came to thank the man who helped make God real and understandable to them. There were the Little League ball players who had become middle-aged men, wanting to thank him for being a fine baseball coach and an even better example.

They came from all over. They loved and appreciated my father and came to tell him. Dad was sick, but he was having a wonderful time. He had invested his life well. And though it was coming to, what many of us considered, a premature end, it had been a great, meaningful, full life. My dad had been successful. He grew up on a little hill farm in Robertson County, Kentucky. He had served his country in World War II. He was the first in his family to graduate from college. He worked his way through law school and was the Vice President and Treasurer of a very successful life insurance company. He had provided very well for his wife and children. He was successful. But more importantly, his life had been significant.

Fortunately, I recognized what was happening in time to join this wonderful parade. I grasped the opportunity at hand and thanked my Dad for being a fine father, good friend, wonderful teacher and excellent example. What a parade! My, it was grand. One the finest parades I have ever seen. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

Copyright © 1991, William T. McConnell, III, All Rights Reserved