1927-2002
David was born in 1927, his parents, Willis and Audrey, up against it in the oncoming Great Depression. I don’t know much about David’s early years except his brief recounts to me of those times. His earliest years were neither happy nor otherwise; he was a child of the down times. I have no accounts from either Mom or Dad about Dave’s early times, only the accounts from Dave himself — colored, perhaps, by his own perceptions of what that was all about.
He told me that he was basically a happy kid, that Mom, in particular, treated him with great care and kindness. He/they were living in Winding Gulf, WV (where Alice and I were born), and the Hale house — Mom’s home — was nearby. He remembered that he had his happiest hours when Mom — or Dad — took him to the Hale household, where he would play with his one-year-younger uncle Don Hale, the son of Henry and Effie; the younger brother of our Mom, Audrey. He and Don obviously “bonded” at an early age; they would become lifelong friends and buddies.
At age seven, Dave, Mom, Alice, and I moved to Alderson and stayed with Dad’s parents while he chased a job in Charleston. Dave went to school in Alderson. He had special affection for his aunt Ruth, Dad’s much younger sister, who was about six years older than Dave. Ruth was that blond, beautiful teenager whom Dave adored. However, our Alderson experience ended a year later, when Dad moved us all to South Charleston, where he had gotten a job with Carbide and Carbon Chemicals Corporation, later to be known as Union Carbide.
I’ll move forward with Dave to my time with him. He was about twelve, I was eight. He had buddies from Scouts with whom he hiked and camped. I, at eight, wanted to do that too. One of my earliest memories of that time was the day that Dave and friends went off to the woods, in the snow, to cook breakfast and hike, and the rest. I wanted to go with him; he, the big brother, said “You can’t go with us, you’re too young!” Abashed, I went back into the house. Ten minutes later, I struck out in pursuit. I caught up with them just as Dave was putting water over the fire to make tea. You know the rest: he yelled at me, berated me, told me I was just a kid, and so on. I blubbered to him that I just wanted to be there, and the rest. He, being Dave, my brother, softened and brought me into the group, much against their wishes: what’s this young kid doing here with us, the older guys? I think that’s when Dave and I became brothers under the skin. He looked after me, teased me, all the rest. As time went on, when he was about sixteen and I about twelve, he taught me to jitterbug in our living room. He’d play the radio record show, featuring the big band music of the ‘40s, and show me the “center step,” and so on. As I related many years later, at his memorial service, the problem for me was that although he taught me to jitterbug, I was the girl. I had it backwards. Of course, I later figured it out and was able to jitterbug from the guy’s side.
David’s life was crazy. At 17, a senior in high school, he had accumulated so much makeup time from skipping school that the principal told him he’d never graduate. However, the principal offered him a deal: if Dave would join the military, with parental permission of course, the principal would grant Dave a diploma upon Dave’s successful military service with an honorable discharge. Dave loved that deal, and so did Dad. To Dad, it was Dave on his way elsewhere with Dad’s blessing; with Dave, it was out of the house and on his own with nothing to lose. So with Dad’s happy permission and Dave’s exuberance, Dave joined the U.S. Navy in 1944.
That event was to me a memorable time in my life: just before Dave was to report for duty, Dad took Dave and me fishing on Little Coal River. Kind of a Dad’s going away deal. We were on the water that early morning, fog over the still water of the small river. Dad had gotten minnows for bait. The three of us, the family guys, all on the river. Long bamboo poles, with minnows tossed out to the end of the line. The really good part was that Dave caught bass after bass, while Dad and I just watched in wonderment. It was Dave’s moment. And I held my breath after each of his catches, thinking, O Boy, Dave, good for you!
If there was one family member about whom a book could be written, it would be Dave. From a year in the Navy (the war ended) to four years at Carbide, then three years in the Army in Germany, followed by four years at WVU, Dave’s life experiences were varied and intense to say the least. Taking a degree in journalism, he went to work for the local newspaper, and from there to the State Road Commission, where he was in charge of office services.
In 1972, Dave and his wife, Joan, and their young children, Katherine and Craig, moved to Roanoke and we were close by again. Dave and Joan and Carol and I had great times together, with our three and their two kids. During the ensuing six years Dave and I became even more close, and we camped and fished together quite often.
Then, in 1979, Dave went to Arizona, chasing a money dream that didn’t pan out. He and Joan divorced, and Dave was gone for good. The following years found him married once again, living in North Carolina, South Carolina, Alaska (briefly), and back to Arizona. He was no longer in touch with any family members. During his last years in Arizona he wrote a number of poems, all of which describe with beauty just who he was. They are in book form, among the family documents collected by Leslie. At that time, in about 1997, he sent Mom a letter saying that he had survived colon cancer and that he sent best wishes to all.
In January 2002, his daughter Kathy received word that Dave, living in Tucson, Arizona, had suffered a stroke and was in the hospital there. I flew to Tucson to be with him, and learned that in addition to the stroke, his colon cancer had metastasized to his lungs. I returned a second time to fly him to Tennessee, where his daughter lived. He spent his final months in a nursing home in Martin, Tennessee, where Kathy was close by.
I visited him in Tennessee several times over the next few months. Those visits were both sad and hilarious; Dave never failing to be Dave, with his not-to-be-interrupted sense of humor. Here’s one story of that sense of humor in the face of impending death: While in Tucson, recovering from his stroke, his tests included a lung X-Ray. The doctor came to report to him, unexpectedly, that he had cancer in both lungs. David replied, “Not so. Can’t be. Hell, Doc, I quit smoking a month ago!” Even then, the instant wit. Dave told me that story, and laughed about the doctor’s look of utter disbelief. After seven months of pain, but never despair, Dave died on July 22, 2002.
The above comments offer a sketch of Dave’s life. But I can’t close without expressing the rest of it. As a person, Dave was extraordinarily bright, witty, funny, fun-loving, happy-go-lucky, daredevil, caring, and a great friend. He was a terrific writer, and was very inventive when it came to fixing things or finding better ways to do things. He constantly sought information about any topic that was in his current pathway, and his recall of esoteric facts was scary. He had all the tools of a scholar, but his day-to-day life was so exciting he didn’t want to be one. He loved his family, he was crazy about our kids, and beneath his lighthearted persona he was extremely sentimental. He could and did send those around him into gales of laughter at his quips. And he could laugh at himself — he had no ego about his own escapades or shortcomings. The irony of it all is that way down deep, he was never a truly happy person; never found peace. Dave was one of a kind, and it’s hard to imagine a better big brother.
David enjoyed writing, and “How Very Rich Am I” is a collection of his poems, stories, and essays.
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