My Dad did not do house work. My Dad did not do yard work.
I never saw him wash or dry a single dish, cook or grill anything, pick up a broom, make a bed, mow the grass, plant a bush, paint or fix anything around the house. He didn’t even shine his own shoes. That was my job. He did absolutely no house or yard work, ever. That was for women and children.
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He was 47 years old when I was born and in his early to mid-50s by the time I was old enough to know him.
His fighting days were pretty much over by then, although he still had a blackjack and brass knuckles, which I saw on a nightstand beside their bed on a rare occasion when I went into my parents’ bedroom.
He told me once, “Until I was 40 years old, if a week went by when I didn’t get into at least two fights I considered it a lost week.”
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My Dad was my father. He was not my buddy.
I played 10 seasons of sports. He saw me play one quarter of one football game and watched me run one 880-yard dash.
He was not there to “support” me. He was there to protect me, feed and clothe me, and teach me not to lie, steal, cheat or sass him, not necessarily in that order.
After I graduated from Garinger High School in Charlotte I asked him to drive me to school so I could pay a library fine and pick up my report card. I had to give him directions. He had never been to my school and didn’t know how to get there.
NOTE: There will be many more stories about John F. Stith Sr. You should not judge him until you know more about him.
Coming Monday: The Auction – Part 1 of 2