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JIMMIE FLETCHER
by Gary Fletcher (aka Gryphem)
When I was asked to present a eulogy of my father, I knew it would be an impossible task to portray my father in a few minutes’ time. No number of words could ever convey all that my father was. Fortunately for me, most of you knew him. So I will simply try to help you remember him for a moment.
I have always been proud of my father. All my life I have lived in awe of him, really. I never told him that, because we just didn’t say that sort of thing. I think he knew, though... at least after I became an adult.
My father was larger than life. He came from a humble beginning to do remarkable things. He was modest, without pretensions, yet always completely confident in his own judgment and abilities.
He never tolerated foolishness or disrespectful behavior, yet he was full of compassion... for his family, friends, students or coworkers... even random people who crossed his path.
He was professional in the extreme. He took every responsibility seriously, willingly giving his time and energy until it hurt to be sure the job was done and done right... whether the job was improving student learning, speaking on behalf of the Gideons at a church he’d never seen before, planting trees in our yard, or winning a football game.
But he never let work get between him and his family. Somehow he managed to do it all. He might have gone to a lot of meetings or classes in the evenings, but when he was home he made up for it with quality time.
Usually that quality time involved doing things together. Sometimes it would be a fun activity like playing catch or going for a bike ride. Sometimes it would be a job, like cleaning the pool or mowing the lawn. Sometimes it involved a trip to the woods to shoot, or fishing Shingle Creek or the canal, or even going to the dump to drop something off.
My brother and I would jump at the chance to run an errand with Dad. When he had to go to the convenience store for a gallon milk in the evening, as he often did, he would usually call one of us to ride with him. Just for the ride, and maybe some light conversation if we were so inclined. Whenever he called me to ride with him, I felt important. Whenever he called Tony, I felt a little jealous. Fortunately he was happy to let both of us come along to watch when he played softball on the church league. Those were fun times.
When all the activities and errands were done, when Dad had no meeting and his Sunday School lesson was ready to go, and when there was time left at the end of the day, sometimes we would watch television and eat ice cream. He loved Andy Griffith and Hogan’s Heroes, The Beverly Hillbillies and Tim Conway and college sports. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t bond in front of the television - as long as the programming is worthwhile and you are watching and talking together. And especially when there is ice cream involved.
My father enjoyed seeing new places, especially if they were fun or historically significant. Our family took weekend trips to Daytona Beach, rode over to Clearwater to watch the Cincinnati Reds in Spring Training, and drove as close as we could get to the Kennedy Space Center to watch the Apollo missions take off. We took annual trips to my grandparents’ homes in Kentucky and sometimes fit in side trips along the way.
One of my earliest memories is a road trip through Virginia in 1961, in which we visited Thomas Jefferson’s home, Monticello. Another is when Dad worked on the C&O Railroad, and he took me for a ride in a caboose. We rode that caboose from Raceland to Greenup, Kentucky, and it impressed me so much that I remember it clearly more than 50 years later.
One particularly eventful summer we went from our home to our grandparents’ by way of Tallahassee, Montgomery, Nashville, and Frankfort, touring all four state capitols. Another time we found the cabin where Abe Lincoln had been born. My parents instilled in me, during these early trips, a lifelong love of history and travel.
My father was a devout man. He didn’t much care for ritual, but his convictions ran deep. His firm understanding of right and wrong influenced his every decision. He always tried to do the right thing, regardless of adversity or consequences. And if, once in a while, he fell short - which was rare, but let’s face it, we’re all human - he believed in grace, forgiveness, and new beginnings.
My father believed shortcomings were to be acknowledged, corrected to the best of one’s ability, and put in the past. Each responsibility, he believed, was a sacred obligation. He held everyone, including himself, to the highest standards, expected the best... to put it plainly, he was kind of a perfectionist. Yet he was a realist. When people fell short of his expectations, he did not condemn. He simply sighed and expected better next time.
My father loved his people. He loved the family he grew up with, including two of his brothers who are here with us today. He loved my mother deeply. And she loved him just as much. /// Although this is all about my father, I must take one moment to commend my mother for the magnificent care she has given my father for these past eight years. She has kept him the center of her life, even while he has been in the nursing home, visiting him daily (sometimes more than once per day) for all that time. What an example of devotion! Thank you, Mom. /// As I was saying, Dad didn’t make an elaborate show of his feelings but they were strong. There’s an old saying, “Still waters run deep.” That was my dad. He and Mom loved my brother and me, too, and did their best to give us a good start in life... even if we didn’t always listen as well as Dad thought we should. Actually, I think we were listening far more intently than he ever realized.
My father was characterized by Strength... Determination... Intelligence... Integrity... Compassion... and one other very significant characteristic: Humor. Dad had a powerful sense of humor that made people enjoy being around him. How could you not enjoy hanging around with someone who was having so much fun himself? I can still hear Dad interrupting himself by chuckling as he was trying to tell a story about some “good ol’ boy.” My brother has done a good job of sharing some of Dad’s sense of Humor. I want to add a few bits.
No one could beat Dad at cards. Never in my life have I seen anyone who won more consistently than my father. Whether it was Hearts or Rook or some other game, he always WON. It was uncanny. But winning often never diminished the joy of victory to Dad. He would raise the final, winning card high above his head, slap it down onto the table and laugh and laugh. Our misery in losing all the time was tempered by the contagious happiness he displayed in winning.
Sometimes Dad was funny when he didn’t even mean to be. When we traveled to interesting places I used to collect souvenirs. Usually they were things I picked up off the ground. I picked up geological specimens from various parts of the Appalachians between North Carolina and Kentucky, sea shells from Florida beaches, pebbles of bits of gravel from historical sites. Dad never understood this. One Kentucky trip I had picked up more than the ordinary amount of souvenirs. I had filled an entire shoe box. When we were packing the trunk of the car for our trip home he came across it. “What’s this?” he asked. “My souvenirs,” I replied. “It’s a box of rocks,” Dad said with confusion in his voice. “They’re important,” I said. “You need to get rid of these,” he said, “We don’t need to be carrying a lot of rock hundreds of miles.” A discussion followed, in which I made an impassioned plea to keep my box of treasures. It ended when Mom stepped in. “Oh, let him keep them,” she said, “It isn’t hurting anything.” Dad just looked at ground and shook his head in bewilderment as he wandered away. More to himself than to us he was muttering, “It’s a BOX of ROCKS!” We had to act serious at the time, but it was hilarious.
Dad sometimes accused me of being quirky... and he was right, of course... but he could be kind of quirky too. When Mom took custody of Dad’s wallet when he went into the nursing home in 2007, she found a voter registration card, some family photos, and one other very unusual item. It was a very old laminated newspaper clipping. What, you might ask, would be important enough to my dad that he laminated this clipping and kept it in his wallet at all times, even decades later? Would it be the announcement of his victory in the Superintendent election of 1976? No. Would it be the obituary of a family member? No. Would it be something of vast historical significance, like the moon landing? No. Would it be about some family member’s great success, like a college graduation? No. It was a short clipping from the Sentinel with a picture of Dad holding a big fish and a few lines describing the scene. Those of you who have known my dad a long long time might remember that way back in 1964 (the first year we moved to Kissimmee), he caught a record size catfish - 27 pounds and 37 inches. Dad was so proud of that catch (He caught it using 8 pound test line!) that over 40 years later he was still carrying around the laminated newspaper clipping to show to anyone who might seem interested. Now that might seem kind of unusual, but I don’t care. I am happy that he caught that big fish, and I love that he was so proud of it.
I want to share with you a few more short stories about my dad.
When Jimmie was about 12 years old, living on the farm in Kentucky, he had the task of rounding up the cattle from the hillside. He was having a lot of trouble finding them. He was asked, “How do you expect to be a farmer if you can’t even find the cows on a hillside?” He replied, “I don’t. That’s why I go to school” (He graduated from high school at age 16, by the way.)
When Jimmie was a young teacher and track coach in Greenup County, he had a particular student in one class who continually frustrated him - not listening, interrupting, not following directions and so on. Well, one day when that student was being particularly annoying, Mr. Fletcher, who was also Coach Fletcher, reached down to the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out the starter pistol he had there in preparation for an after-school track meet, and fired it. Let’s talk about results: Humor and improved classroom discipline all in one act of ingenuity. (Of course, that probably wouldn’t be a good idea today. Times change...)
To bring this to a close, I want to share one last story. I was 15 years old, and a sophomore in high school. As an administrator in the Osceola County Schools, Dad sometimes had to travel. This time he had to go to Miami. He invited me to come with him and I, of course, jumped at the opportunity. Besides being a trip with Dad, I thought I might get the chance to do some driving as I had my learner’s permit and needed some time behind the wheel.
We were cruising the Florida Turnpike somewhere in the wide open spaces of southern Osceola or Okeechobee County when Dad offered to let me take the wheel. He pulled over and we changed places. I was not a bad young driver, but I was an inexperienced young driver. Almost all my driving experience to that time had been in a 4-speed manual 1971 Pinto, but the car we were taking to Miami was a big new Ford LTD which was about twice as long as the Pinto, with about a thousand times more power. It was automatic, with power steering, power brakes, power everything. About as different from the Pinto as a car could possibly be.
You probably see where this is going... which is more than I can say about the two of us that memorable day in 1974.
Behind the wheel, I accelerated gently and eased out onto the highway. Traffic was light, conditions were pleasant, and everything was right with the world as I sped down the highway for several miles. But inevitably, I eventually found myself drifting too far to one side of my lane. I turned the wheel - what I thought was gently - to the right. My correction would’ve been just right in the Pinto, but in the power-everything LTD, it was too much. I swerved across the line a bit. Now embarrassed, I turned the wheel back left with some enthusiasm. Bad move. The power steering took us all the way into the gravel margin in the center of the highway.
Fortunately there was no traffic in the immediate vicinity, because then I really panicked. I threw the wheel back over to the right and we bounced across two lanes of Turnpike onto the right shoulder. Fully in the grasp of fear and adrenaline I was preparing to throw the car into its steepest swerve yet when Dad reached out and grabbed the wheel with his left hand. He arrested the swerve to the left and told me to brake slowly. I of course hit the brake too hard, but had the good sense to let up and try again, more gently. While I operated the brake, Dad drove with one hand from the passenger side. He guided us to a safe stop on the right shoulder.
We turned the car off and sat for a moment. We caught our breath, let the adrenaline subside, and took stock. No real damage had been done. I figure I had been one more swerve away from flipping the car and rolling down the turnpike sideways when Dad took control. But here we were, safe. I looked at him. He looked at me. I said, “I’m sorry.” He said, “I know.” Then a minute later he asked... “So do you want to keep on driving or do you want me to drive?”
My dad was like that. Strong, capable, ready to let me take the wheel. Ready to rescue me if I failed. Supportive, ready to take control if I needed him to do that. Brave enough to let me try again if I was ready. That’s how he was.
Jimmie Fletcher was a great man. I am proud to say he was my father. I will miss him. Thank you, Dad.
