Roy Jones

My daddy died six years ago yesterday. My sister had to remind me. It was nice, though, reminiscing about growing up with Roy and his quirky ways.

I'm actually a bit disappointed in myself for not remembering, because I've been thinking about him an awful lot lately. I was even planning a post about him on Father's Day. I miss him a lot, and I wish I'd been humble enough and smart enough to spend more time with him when he was alive.

My daddy was an original. And yeah, I know that God made us all unique, but Roy Jones was something else. First and foremost, Daddy was funny, and he didn't have a sense of humor like everyone else's. Daddy's sense of humor was very dry, very off-kilter, and I'm sure that's where Tracey and I got our very dry, very off-kilter sense of humor. A few examples: Daddy would tell us to call his family and tell them that he had passed "so somebody will send over some good desserts"; he would also have no problem answering the phone "Joe's Pool Hall" or "Graham Funeral Home".

He also loved to make up the most ridiculous, nonsensical songs--like a countryfied Lewis Carroll. I remember being no more than seven or eight, and Daddy getting the pure giggles out of watching a man receive a ticket in the Wal-Mart parking lot. The name of the song? "Little Yellow Ticket", and I can recite it word for word. Just don't ask.

Daddy had several hobbies--hunting and fishing, tearing up old vehicles just to put them back together again, and his favorite, antagonizing people who were easily ruffled, like our grandmother or me. My daddy was not easily ruffled--my sister inherited that from him, as well as his love of antagonizing, so he would get a kick out of seeing how far he could push our mother's mother, Mammy to us, by calling her "Goofy" or talking about various people Mammy didn't like. As for me, all it took was two words--"Double Time"--to throw me into a tailspin. You see, I've been known to be a little slow (I prefer methodical with perfectionism tendencies), so Daddy used to try to speed me up with that little phrase. I hate to admit it, but it irks me to this day.

The most important thing about my father, though, was that he was, at all times, unfailingly himself. He did not pretend to be someone else, nor did he want to be anyone else. He loved Hank Williams and peanuts in Pepsi. He wore denim overalls and plaid shirts everywhere--even to church. He did not believe in calling in sick to work unless you were on your deathbed. He believed in working for what you wanted.

I wish he was here for me to tell him that I wish I could be more like him.