dad (1947-1999)

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dad (1947-1999)

John Michael McCool
April 2, 1947 – August 14, 1999
Letter carrier, Greenville, South Carolina, 28 years

Saturday, August 28, 1999. 3:10 a.m.

Two weeks ago today my dad died.

He was in the yard. It was a Saturday and he was edging along the driveway like he did every Saturday in the summer before it got too hot. He had a heart attack. Mom found him by the mailbox. The ambulance came fast and they worked on him all the way to the hospital, and they couldn't bring him back.

He was 52.

I was in Charlotte. Mom called at 11:40. I drove 85 down to Greenville and I don't remember any of it.

I can't sleep, so I'm writing it down here. I don't really know who this is for.

Things he said

"If you're early you're on time."

"A man ought to know his neighbors' names."

"Don't buy a car you can't work on."

"Check your oil." (every phone call)

"Go Tigers." (every phone call, September through November)

"Rain, sleet, snow, and Mrs. Boykins' dog."

"You did fine." (when I called him after the interview for the bank job)

"Love you, bud."

What people from his route told me at the funeral home

Mrs. Helen Boykins said that after her hip surgery he brought her mail up to the front door every day for eight months instead of leaving it in the box at the street. He never told us that.

Mr. Howard Eckart said that in 1994 Dad noticed his mail piling up and knocked, and then went around back and found him on the kitchen floor where he'd fallen, and called for help. Mr. Eckart said, "I'm here because of your daddy." He held my hand a long time.

Mrs. Shirley Werth said every Christmas for twenty years she gave him a plate of fudge, and every year he brought the plate back washed.

Mrs. Nancy Creasey said that during the Gulf War, when her son's letters came, Dad would wait at the door while she read them, to see if the boy was all right. Then he'd finish the street.

Mr. Anthony Ballesteros, who has argued with Dad about Clemson and Carolina for twenty years, wore a garnet tie. He said Dad would have wanted somebody to.

Carl Aceves, who carried the route next to his for fifteen years, said Dad trained half the carriers at the station and all of them still case their mail the way he showed them.

The line at the funeral home went out the door and down the sidewalk. Mom kept saying, who are all these people. Dad would have known every one of their names.

Clemson

First game: 1981. I was six. They won it all that year and I thought that happened every year.

He parked in the same lot for eighteen years. Pimento cheese sandwiches, boiled peanuts, a thermos of coffee he never drank because he forgot it in the truck.

Every game he made me stand up for the team coming down the hill. I mean really stand. Hat off.

Last game together: last fall. We lost. It was a bad year. He said next year would be better.

He was excited about the new coach. He had already bought the season tickets. They came in July and he put them on the refrigerator under the Tiger Paw magnet.

The last phone call

Wednesday night, August 11. I called him. Eleven minutes, it says on my phone bill. He asked if I'd changed my oil. I hadn't. He said Bowden was going to turn it around. I said I'd come down Labor Day weekend. He said, "Bring your laundry, your mama misses it." Then "love you, bud," and I said "you too," and that was it. That was a good phone call. I keep reminding myself it was a good phone call.

Things I keep finding in the truck

Mom gave me his truck. I drove it back to Charlotte last Sunday.

His orange cap, with the sweat line on it.

A roll of butter rum Life Savers, two left.

Dog biscuits in the glove box. He carried them for the dogs on his route. All the dogs on his route liked him except one.

A list on the back of an envelope in his handwriting: oil filter, birdseed, mulch, F. Labor Day.

Seven quarters in the ashtray for the car wash.

Reading glasses from the drugstore, the ones he said he didn't need.

An Alabama tape in the deck. I haven't taken it out.

Mom

Mom is doing all the things. The papers and the insurance and the thank-you notes. She's sleeping on the couch. She says the bed is too big. She went back to work at the school cafeteria the Monday after the funeral because she said she'd go crazy in the house. I call her every night at nine. My mom's name is Andrea and they were married twenty-six years in June.

One more thing

Get your blood pressure checked. I mean it. Dad's was high and he knew it, and he had pills, and he didn't take them every day because he said they made him tired on the route. I don't know if that's what did it. The doctor said it could have been part of it. A lot of drugstores have a machine you can sit down at for free. Go sit down at it. If you're a man over forty, go to the doctor. Please.

Tuesday, September 14. One month.

Went back to work last week. Everybody at work was nice. I had a customer yelling at me about a bounced check fee for twenty minutes and I didn't care at all, which my supervisor said was the best she'd ever seen me handle one.

The carriers at his station sent Mom a card. Every single one of them signed it. Some of them wrote a whole paragraph. Mom read them to me over the phone and we both had to stop.

The news is all the hurricane. They're evacuating Charleston. Dad would have been watching the Weather Channel all night and calling me to tell me what I was already looking at.

Saturday, September 25. Six weeks.

I went down to Greenville and helped Mom with his closet. We gave his uniforms to Carl for the new carriers, because Dad would have hated to waste them. Mom kept the sun helmet. I kept one pair of his work shoes. They're worn down on the outside of the heel, like mine.

Mom figured he walked about ten miles a day on the route. Ten miles, five or six days a week, twenty-eight years. That's more than seventy thousand miles. That's almost three times around the world, carrying other people's mail.

Mr. Robin Gary, who has sat next to Dad at Clemson since 1979, called the week after the funeral to ask if I wanted Dad's seat this season. I said yes. I went to the first home game and sat in it, on his seat cushion. I don't remember the score. Mr. Gary didn't say anything about it, he just bought me a Coke.

People keep telling me it gets easier. I'll let you know.

Franklin McCool
[email protected]
If you knew him, please write.

Last updated September 25, 1999