This past week was the sixth

anniversary of the passing of my dad. Normally this would be a totally

sad remembrance but, I choose to see it more as bittersweet. Enough time

has passed that I can look back and remember first the goodness of even

having a father in the home. Enough time has passed too that I can look

back at all the good things (and a few bad) that I grew up with, and laugh.

For some reason as soon as

I try to remember some "past" concerning my father, I remember

our house being built in Macedonia, S.C., a suburb of Moncks Corner, S.C.

With my mom still living there today, it is small house with 7-foot ceilings

and with bedrooms that number less than members of the household, something

unheard of in these "civilized" times.

My dad was a carpenter and

practically built the house or drove the builders crazy with his eye for

detail and perfection. I think the first time I was in awe was when I

realized my dad would build something with the lumber dimensions in mind

and when the project was done, there would not be one scrap of wood left.

He was probably a great mathematician in the practical sense of the word.

I know he never lost count when he was wacking us with his skinny belt.

No, don't call a therapist for me; I deserved every wack I got and more

than I got, too.

My dad was a teacher too. He

loved showing us the point to everything. He loved making us endure what

we thought were silly and sometimes downright wacky exercises, because

we just "need to know." In the grand tradition of Southern men,

it was important that he made us three boys tough.

He once got a little piglet

that we promptly raised as a pet, only to reach the inevitable fate of

our breakfast, lunch and dinner table. To make us tough, when it was time

to turn our pet into bacon, he took my twin and me outside to watch him

"put the pig down." This bears little explanation other than

it involved a rifle.

Speaking of rifles, my dad

was an avid squirrel hunter and didn't believe in shooting squirrels with

the aid of the scatter of a shotgun. Watching my dad hunt with his trained

squirrel dog was true Americana art. We probably had squirrel meet once

a week, and my father always ate his with the head on. He believed the

brain made him a better hunter. You grow up tough eating a plate of squirrel,

watching those bug-eyes staring up at you.

My father also taught me the

"why pay someone to do it, when you can do it yourself" ideal.

He taught us never to be afraid to try it yourself. This could be why

I grew up knowing how to sew, knit, crochet, weld, mechanic, carpenter,

fish, hunt, juggle and do stupid magic tricks.

I have random recollections

of such quirky things about my father, like when my twin, who was faster

than me, would hit me and run. My dad would make him stand still after

I couldn't catch him, so I could hit him back.

My dad didn't like microwave

ovens because he didn't believe it was right eating food that was hot

while the container stayed cool. He resisted color television for years

too, feeling it was just a fad. He read the paper every day and had to

always watch "Gunsmoke" on Monday nights. He thought Archie

Bunker was a genius.

All in all it was great growing

up with my father. And I just got a craving for some squirrel meat.

[Visit Billy Murphy on the

Internet at https://ebilly.net.]