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the scenes. He realized that without their efforts there would be no superstars.
As a young journalist, I'm glad that I learned my profession at his knee. Although I didn't graduate with a degree in journalism. I've been schooled in the craft since I was old enough to read. Many was the time that my question about the meaning of a word was met with the reply, “Look it up in the dictionary."
Dad made sure that my brother and I were acquainted with the best in the profession. I knew about James J. Kilpatrick long before I dreamed I would be his neighbor. And Mr. Kilpatrick's column was often among the articles and editorial cartoons I found folded inside letters from home — each clipping meticulously marked with the date it appeared and the newspaper’s name.
Dad’s legacy was best expressed by the Rev. George Moore.
Mom's youngest brother was close to Dad. Uncle George first met Dad when he was a 1:1 year old farmboy — when Dad was courting my mother. George looked up to the young Army lieutenant, and they became fast friends. George wore his first suit at my parents' wedding.
George is now grown, and a minister. He and Dad both grew older, but neither he nor Dad ever outgrew their genuine love of life, the country, and laughter. , George preached at Dad's funeral. How he did it, I don’t know. He read a poem he had written about Dad, called “The Deep Strength of a Gentle Man.”
That was Dad: a gentle, strong, gentleman.
I hope that my mother, my brother and I will always carry his legacy with us, and that Dad's love of life, of family, of the country, of laughter, will alw ays be with us. We’re lucky to have known and been loved by such a man. I’m proud to have called him “Dad.”
Happy birthday. Dad. You’re gone, but you will never be forgotten.
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