Dad’s Secret Place

My Dad is an African American, born in the 1940s. He and his family were poor and lived on a farm. They would grow and pick everything from cotton to corn and work from sun up to sun down. It was a lot of hard work but it taught my father so many things. Discipline was his middle name. During this time, even though as a kid he wanted to do things that kids do, he had to work to live, to survive, to breathe. It was unlawful for him and many others that looked like him to attend certain places because of segregation and racism infiltrated into the laws of that time. Church and school were places that education and freedom could coexist for little brown bits and girls. My Dad would tell us he was never book smart, but he loved to work with his hands. He would tear things apart only to rebuild. He would continue to do this until he helped build his first house at the age of 17. From that point, his hands were his saving grace. He then began the journey as a carpenter and electrician, building houses for many in and out of the community. Whenever there was something to be fixed, my Dad was that guy. Then there was the call. The call to serve in the United States Army. He was called to serve in the scariest and uncertain of times. My father answered the call. He became a United States soldier and fought in the Vietnam War. He served his country proudly. He would always tell his girls, I don’t ever want you to join the military. My older sister is a hot head and of course she grew up and joined. Back to ny Dad, he fought for his country and was awarded a purple Medal of Honor for his bravery. When we would ask questions about what it was like over there, he would tell us about meeting Bob Hope when he was in the hospital and how he had plenty of rice. He would deliver the mail on the bases over there. He would share what it was like to jump out of a plane. He would tell us how important it was for us to learn a skill and use our hands along with getting an education. As I look outside and see my father in his garden, I smile because he was right. The wisdom he shared I will never forget.

I would ask my Dad, how did you do all of that? He would say, I thank the Good Lord and continue to be grateful for all the things he has done in my life. You know there were times where I could have been in danger but the almighty kept me. There were times where I would work hard and after doing the work, would not get pay for whatever reason. I just had to continue to plant, and continue to trust him. And so he did. No matter where he would go, he would always say that and believe it. I lived in New York for 6 years which was far away from the fields of Alabama. He would always tell me while he was working in his secret place, “you can always come home, no matter where you go.” I would look at some of the humongous cabbages and collard greens my Dad”s hands could grow. He would deliver these to many people within the community with a big smile because he thought he had the best looking bunches by far. He knew when he was at his best, using his hands, going to his secret place.

Fast forward 50 years later, his hands and everything he learned is so valuable today. With a pandemic, a war on racism and politics keeping everyone inside, this is his peace. This is where he goes to clear his mind and plant the things we need for nourishment and growth, the secret place.