When I was very young, he would sit on the front porch of his plank sided home and
look out across the holler as if he were King. The cane-bottomed ladder back chair he
sat in probably was a product of his own hands, or those of someone nearby, and the
potatoes, corn and beans he offered for supper were grown in the garden spot between
his home and that of his eldest daughter, just a ways down the sandy dirt track that led
to the Tomahawk.
He was a man of earthy wisdom and common sense; and man who could joke about
staying out of the way of lightning, then bend down and whack a poisonous snake in the
head with a short stick, causing its immediate demise. Most people in the holler around
Hanover, out on the hill in Luber, and across the creek in Prim called him Uncle Bob.
Others called him Mister Thomas. Some simply addressed him as Sir. And I believe he
enjoyed his own notoriety.
When rain turned to ice and the roads were impassible, he would laugh at folks trying to
drive to town and talk of days when a horse and sled would get you just about
anywhere you wanted to go no matter what the weather. When the air was dry and the
dust suffocating, he’d hear us praying for rain for the gardens and pastures. Sometimes
he’d laugh and tell us to “be careful what you ask for.” Then, when the rains did come
without relenting for days on end, he’d hear our complaints, smile and chuckle
knowingly to himself.
He was with us when we took the long drive from Mountain View to the place where
the Corps of Engineers built the John F. Kennedy Memorial Dam across the Little Red
River to form the impoundment now known as Greer’s Ferry Lake. They say the
President himself had come to Arkansas to dedicate the structure. I never got a look at
him. But Great Grandpa Thomas was there, drinking Orange Nehi sodas and giving
directions to dad about how to get back to where we wanted to get back to.
He was my mother’s grandfather on her mother’s side, but if the truth were known, I
think he was a hero and somewhat of a mentor to my dad. Leastwise, dad used to talk
a lot of good about the man.
Every man needs someone to look up to. Nowadays heroes tend to be folks we never
meet; people on the movie screen or the concert stage or football field or NASCAR
track. Maybe we’ve run out of everyday heroes, or outpaced them. Maybe that’s it.
Maybe we should slow down and observe the lives of those who have lived longer than
us and who may be able to teach us a thing or two about living life.
Bob Thomas knew a thing or two about living. And though I didn’t know him in his
younger days, I know that many of his later days were days filed with laughter. He may
have had something there. And we could learn a lot from someone who finally learned
to take the time out to enjoy what life he had left.
Thanks for the lesson, Sir.
