This seems to be a week of remembrances. Yesterday was the 50th anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. Across much of the country yesterday people stopped at various points throughout the day to think about where they were when they heard about the death of President Kennedy and to reflect on his life and legacy. I for one don’t remember a whole lot about it: I was six years old, sitting in Sister Thomas Marie’s first grade classroom when the announcement came over the loud speaker. I think Sister Thomas Marie dropped something when she heard the news, but I don’t really recall much else. I wasn’t frightened, but it was clear that something was going on and whatever it was was not good. I can’t say that I was deeply affected by the president’s assassination and death. Five years later when Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated followed all too quickly thereafter by the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy, I was much more aware of and more keenly felt the impact of their deaths. Dr. King’s death in particular deeply affected my family and remains a much stronger memory for me.
So while, the world stopped to remember JFK, this evening I am stopping to remember my father, Roland W. Chamblee, Sr. who would have been 91 years old today. I was thinking about how odd it is to say, he would have been 90 today which, while it is true is also a somewhat odd statement. The outlaw Billy the Kid, who was also born on November 23, only in 1859 would have been 154 years old today if he hadn’t died in 1881. Okay so it’s my odd sense of humor kicking–it’s late, my apologies.
I am grateful for my father’s legacy. While he was not nationally prominent like that of JFK and MLK and other towering historical figures, he was certainly prominent in our local community in South Bend, Indiana and surrounding areas, and was most definitely a prominent figure in our family. I have written in this blog about my father a number of times, most recently on Veterans Day and Memorial Day. I also wrote about him on the eve of the third anniversary of his passing on September 23, 2010 (Day 801) I want to take just a few moments to acknowledge him once again and offer simple gratitude for a few of the many small blessings he represented to me.
I am grateful for the some of the physical attributes I inherited from my father: his beautiful, long-fingered hands, some of my mannerisms: the way I rub my hands over my head (his was bald, mine is not, but I find I share that head rubbing mannerism.) Occasionally I will tilt my head a particular way or make a facial expression that I know comes directly from him. And inwardly I smile and shake my head in amazement that even our mannerisms can be passed down through generations, whether by nature or nurture. My father sang a lot and was quite musical, though he didn’t develop formal musical training (he played a trumpet for a while as a young man, but it never “took.”) He had a lovely voice; I used to love to hear him sing pretty much anything. I come by my musical ability honestly–my Dad sang, as did his brother and his mother. So little wonder that his children and several of his grandchildren have good voices and other musical talents. My father was also a writer and speaker, and while I’m not sure I have his gift for oratory (or perhaps it’s more that I don’t put myself out there to give speeches), I do manage to hold my own on those occasions when I am invited to speak.
It is not unusual for us to look at our parents to examine the ways in which we are like them as well as those ways in which we are different. I am grateful to have had two wonderful people to emulate. While they were not perfect (who is?) they were certainly excellent models in so many ways. I miss my father a great deal, and I am of course aware of his absence as birthdays and anniversaries come around. They are painful–though less so each year–but important opportunities to look back and celebrate the life of someone of major significance in my life. For that and for him I am exceedingly grateful.
Portrait of Roland W. Chamblee as a Young Man
