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I haven’t written about my fathers death yet, though he is the inspiration for this site. Here’s what he wrote about his father:

William Franklin Stone, Sr., was born on June 3, 1904. He died in 1987. Every year at this time I think of him. He is not often in my thoughts during the rest of the year, but June 3 jingles the memory.

He was born into what then was a form of Southern aristocracy. His father, Ralph (pronounced “Rafe” in the English way) had a medical degree from the University of Pennsylvania, and he had done his undergraduate work at the University of the South in Sewanee. Rafe’s dad was William Franklin Stone the elder, who held a medical degree from the Medical University of South Carolina and an advanced degree in surgery from Tubengen, Heidelberg, Germany.

The elder William had completed his European schooling at an ominous time, 1859. When war broke out, he immediately volunteered for South Carolina’s Hampton Legion. This was a cavalry unit that would gain some degree of fame, and family legend has it that William did not reveal his status as a doctor. He wanted to carry the sword and ride righteously through the fields of battle. The Confederate Army found him out, though, and he served most of the war as a surgeon in a Richmond hospital. He was a captain and had a sword, but he made more use of his scalpel.

When the war ended, William returned to Glenn Valley, S. C., and put out his shingle. He had few competitors, and he knew the technical, tactical and financial sides of his business. He was the medicine man in the southern end of Spartanburg County, and in those terribly depressed days his fees were often not money but other things—like property. During Reconstruction, he amassed many acres for himself and his son, Rafe. William sported a navel-length white beard and dressed well. Though his ancestors were good Quakers before they moved South many years before, William was a dependable Episcopalian.

He loved his grandsons, Ralph Jr. and the one who would be my father, the younger William. He was troubled mightily by his son, who as he grew into a (sort of) man was unable to master his weakness for alcohol. There are spectacular stories about this poor man’s difficulties and altercations in school and later in his short life. I won’t bore you with them, or with the details of the fact that despite his prestigious degree he never actually practiced medicine. It was easier for him to dissipate the elder William’s fortune.

My great-grandfather had seen my grandfather’s troubles coming. He wrote his will in such a way that his estate would, by and large, be passed along intact to my father and uncle. Rafe somehow broke that will, though, and the aristocrats slid quickly down the slope.

Things held together long enough for my father to receive his secondary schooling at the esteemed Porter Military Academy in Charleston. At night in that holy, humid and wonderful city, William the younger undoubtedly dreamed of The Citadel, and so it was that he was admitted there for his freshman year. The Dad I knew later had an artistic bent and could draw anything he could see. He was a dreamer, concocting schemes (orchardry, cattle farming, timbering, etc.) that cost me a lot of time and energy as a kid. He loved words, wordplay and word games. But somewhere in there was the military man, the grandson of the would-be Hampton cavalryman, the guy who looked great in uniform. (I have pictures of him in cadet livery and in his sergeant’s gear from his time in the Army in the 1920s.)

The Citadel was not to be. The money ran out. He told me once about his mother sending him a check for 15 cents in hopes he could get something to eat. The Citadel’s bursar put him on the street. He caught the train to Spartanburg, but I don’t believe he ever completely stopped looking back toward the Holy City and wondering.

He was plenty smart—smart enough to marry my hard-nosed Baptist mother, the nurse and midwife who would have many girl babies named for her in our part of the country. And they were industrious enough to make a living in this post-aristocratic world. My sister and brother were born in 1929 and 1930. Through all this my parents-to-be continued to support and care for his alcoholic father and weakened mother.

When the Depression came he cut trees off the acres he still owned and sold firewood in Spartanburg. Rafe and my grandmother died in the same year. Around Glenn Valley, my father was “Captain Bill” or “Mr. Bill,” titles of respect despite his economic station. When World War II came Captain Bill went to work in construction at Camp Croft, an Army base near town. Then he went into a cousin’s trucking business and apparently found a career. Early in the war, he and my mother had me.

For many years (until I was 17) I have little first-hand that I could report about him. He threw himself into trucking and became a district manager covering the Carolinas and Georgia. He had a company car and used it five days a week to cover that territory. On weekends, he directed us field hands in our farming activities. He had no objections to people taking a drink, but no whiskey or beer was kept at our house unless my mother’s sisters were visiting from “up North.” (They would come in, bottles clanking in their suitcases, knowing this was parched territory.)

I remember in the early 1950s he smoked Lucky Strike cigarettes. Almost every adult smoked some brand. It was part of being a Carolinian. When filters came along, he switched to the Winston brand. As concerns about tar, nicotine and health effects increased, he made another switch—to the Kent brand, “with the Micronite filter.”

In February of 1960, as I looked toward finishing high school, we were thrown back into the same world together. My mother died, this after years of heart attacks large and small.

When I saw the anguish on his face and heard it in his voice that awful night, I realized this stoic, silent man was big of heart and loved me—but he was a stranger, just as I probably was a stranger to him.

It was a little late. I was headed for college in the fall—and not to The Citadel, which he understood but was not happy about. I continued my schooling and working, and he kept working. Breakfast was our highlight of the day, though neither of us could cook worth a damn.

He helped me with college much more than his father ever had. He remarried and retired. He remained on my side as I got married way too young. He seemed to enjoy seeing me thrash around trying to be a grownup—a parent, even. He was a solid safety net. I knew that if everything else crashed around me, I would never really be abandoned. The man I didn’t know was there if I needed him—but I had to ask.

Through my children I began to know who he was. He was one hell of a grandfather…a legend, even.

When my wife and I separated and later divorced, she took our children and moved back to Spartanburg County. Roberta and Wilson would spend some very important formative years there. We are in the second half of the 1960s now, and my Dad was retired and remarried. The company car was gone, along with the long hours on the road. He stopped smoking. He put his own hands in the dirt more than ever, creating gardens that would qualify as truck farms. When I left for college, he had bulldozed the peach orchard. Now he was a man of leisure with a magic touch with vegetables. His wife worked miracles with flowers. The grounds around the old house became a horticultural wonder.

As their mother worked and went back to school, Roberta and Wilson were able to spend more and more time at the place in Glenn Valley. They idolized the old man, and he delighted in them. What was happening with them had begun happening a few years before with my nieces and nephews. Their visits to the old place were magical. Dad, never very familiar, was “Granddad supreme.” He could work their tails off in the yard and in the garden, but they loved it because it involved him, riding lawn mowers, actual farm tractors, the fish pond, bass, bream, boats, the Rockford rapids, picnics, ice cream churns—an exotic break from their urban experiences.

I have a picture of his eight grandchildren posing on the front porch of the old house. Everyone was there: Jim Jr., Bill, Wilson, Roberta, Linda, Anne, Tina, Thomasy. It was a July day in 1987, one of the hottest ever. Dad is not in the picture. We were meandering through the swirl of memories at the old place because on this day Granddad, William Franklin Stone Sr., had been buried in Calvary Episcopal Church’s cemetery down near the spring Glenn Valley is named for.

He had earned their love and respect, of course, and they had done everything possible to make sure he knew they loved him right back. Maybe he never returned to The Citadel, but I am happy knowing that my sister, brother and I may have made up for that somewhat by having children he could love so dearly as grandchildren.

Happy birthday, Cap’n Bill…Mr. Bill…Granddad…Dad. It is a pleasure knowing you at last.

This hurt:

I know most of you can empathize. Those who can’t, just haven’t had that one special dog yet.

I’ve lost one of the best friends I’ve ever had. Yesterday morning I had to have my dalmatian, Shiner, put to sleep. As you know, he’d gone deaf, had cataracts in both eyes, and had arthritis in his hind legs. This never affected his love, spirit or loyalty.

He laid down and took a nap behind my truck Monday night, and never heard the engine when I got in to back it up to the shop. I badly broke his leg and crushed his pelvis. He spent Monday night at the emergency vet clinic, and Tuesday I took him to our vet, who referred us to specialists in the next city. The vet there laid out his chances for recovery and the prognosis was not good. Prior to this, Shiner still had some good days ahead. After, there would be no more “good days”, so I had to tell him goodbye and let him go. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

Now he’s got a place up next to the shop, but for the first time in 13 yrs he didn’t meet me when I got home last night and didn’t see me off to work this morning. It’s going to take a while.

A little over two years ago I lost a best friend. It surprises me how often I think of him. Back then, I had this to say:

A very close friend passed away last Friday after battling cancer for a little over a year. Upon his diagnosis he quickly called his friends and family and told them of his situation and prognosis. He stressed that though he was young (59), he had lived a rich and full life and had no regrets. He spent the next three or four weeks putting his affairs in order, making an orderly transfer of assets to his children. The balance of this past year he spent fighting his illness with as little disruption to his life as possible. When he saw medical hope gone and his family and friends prepared, he made his peace with God and simply let go. Truly a noble man.

His daughter bravely delivered his eulogy and transformed what could have been a time of grief into a time of celebration of his life and a torrent of pleasant memories. She told several anecdotes about him that illustrated his influence on our lives. The large, protestant sanctuary was full to capacity and everyone in attendance left the service with fond memories of his time on earth.

His tortured body was lowered into the ground at sunset Sunday evening. This new week has begun without him, the world a better place for his time here.