My Dad

My dad died a few minutes before midnight Sunday.

I've spent the time since then with family and friends, focused on planning for a Wednesday afternoon funeral.  We cried and laughed, called, texted and emailed, sifted through about a million photographs and papers, and took comfort in the kindness of others expressed in presence, food, flowers, smiles, stories, hugs and help.

And now I am alone, for the first time since Sunday night.

This is a post that I never wanted to get around to, but, I knew it was coming someday. It happens to everyone, I know.  But it never happened to me and my dad. I wasn't ready, even though I knew he was terribly sick.  So, if you will indulge me, let me say a few things about L.D. Bentley, since he is not around to help me sort this thing out.

First, let me refer you to the obituary written by my sister Emily.  I know many of you don't click on the handy links I provide, but please do so this time, even if you never get back to this post.  I called her and asked her to write that piece around 11:00 a.m. Monday morning.  She said she would be glad to do so. I told her we had a deadline of 4:00 p.m.  She still said yes even though she had a ways to drive before she could get down to it.  She finished a little after three and we made our deadline.  Emily is a truly gifted writer with newspaper journalism experience.  She knew about deadlines.  There is no way that even someone as gifted as Emily could write such a beautiful piece  in a couple of hours if she had to research the subject to find something to say.  I am sure she would tell you that her time was not spent finding things to say about her dad. The problem was deciding what to leave out.  Good material was not a problem.

L. D. Bentley did a lot of things not included in the obit.  He ran a sales barn, started a newspaper,  owned and operated coin laundries, invested in an oil well in New Hope, Alabama,  helped in the creation of the 4C program in Blount County, which served the needs of immigrant workers' children and others in need, served on the board of the Oneonta Public Library, served on the Board of Directors of the Blount County Department of Pensions and Security/DHR, assisted in the Blount County literacy program. If I left something out important or interesting, just let me know by commenting.  As I said, good material about what L. D. Bentley did during his life is not a problem.

But a life is not simply a list of what is done.

A life would be better defined by who someone is, if that were really possible.

To me, he was Dad.

I looked up to my dad, not just for all those wonderful things he did, but more for why and how he did them. It was never about him.  He would not let it be about him.  It was about helping other folks have a better life, particularly those who were powerless and needed help. True, that is not a formula for political success, which resulted in a short career in office, but a long life of respect. He had a strong, clear baritone voice, "network quality" he used to say, laughing, as we listened to his most recently recorded radio ad spot.  It was a voice perfect for radio.  But it was a strong, clear voice heard in many other places as well.

 It was heard in the halls of the Senate Chamber of the old Alabama Capitol building in Montgomery for hours and hours as he and 12 other Senators committed political suicide by filibustering until the clock ran out on segregationist Governor George Wallace's effort to change the rules so that he could be elected for a second term.

It was heard in Oneonta in the fifties as a new public school system was born, and later in the seventies as a new school complex was built.

His voice was clear in board meetings addressing the needs of adult mentally challenged adults and the concerns of their aging parents and worried family. It was strong when advocating for poor immigrant workers' children and their need for education.  He was generous with this gift of voice.

His voice was one of his best assets.  Not just the smooth sounds that resulted from "a set of good pipes." A voice that came from a deeper place, somewhere beneath his vibrating vocal cords, somewhere within his big, big heart.

The world, at least around here, will miss that voice. Will miss that heart.

I know I will.

 I do.

Because he was my dad.  He loved me and all his family with that same big heart, that same strong voice.

I was blessed to be with my dad Sunday night. I was looking directly into his eyes. Seconds before he died he lifted the oxygen mask (which he hated) from his face, weakly smiled the mischievous smile that he often used to lighten the mood, cut his eyes toward me as I stood by the side of his bed and said,

"Will you tell me a story?"

A few seconds later, I saw the light disappear from his eyes and he was gone in an instant.

I don't know what he meant when he asked me to tell him a story.  But he left us a story to tell.

And a lot of voice lessons.

I love you Dad.

.