On May 13 of this year, the world lost one of its best people. William Jackson Crumley, “Jackie” to those who knew him, lost his battle with esophageal cancer at the age of 68. He left us four months ago, and it still doesn’t seem possible or real. I suppose that’s how every daughter feels in this situation. The following is what I wrote about him, which my husband read at his funeral.
*Dear reader, please be sure to pronounce Daddy right: Deddy. (I’m from northeast Georgia, and this is how we say it.)
My daddy was everything a father should be: loving, self-sacrificing, and hardworking. I remember one year he took us to the beach and got me up before the crack of dawn so he could take me fishing on the pier. It was only after I became a parent and took my own kids on vacation that I truly appreciated what that meant. I know he would have preferred to have slept in, but he made the effort anyway, because he knew it was important to me. That’s just the kind of man he was.
He taught me practical things: the 3 rules of plumbing, a secret technique for getting stuck things unstuck, and how to wire up a receptacle. He taught all three of us kids how to work hard, though I don’t remember him ever giving us a formal lesson on it. That was one we just learned by watching his example every day.
But the most important thing he taught me by far, I think, was to approach life with a sense of humor. He was fond of saying, “Don’t sweat the small stuff. And it’s all small stuff.” The way to not sweat the small stuff, in his opinion, was to learn to laugh.
One day in fourth grade, I lost the school spelling bee in the final round, which was a big deal to me. I misspelled goblet. I spelled it G-O-B-B-L-E-T, and I was terribly upset with myself. But when I came home and told Daddy what happened, he didn’t let me wallow. Instead, he made it into a running joke, one that I have not lived down yet. From that day on, any time he found an opportunity-any time a fancy cup or turkey related topic came up, he would make a joke about my mistake, and we’d laugh.
I loved to play softball, but I hated to lose or strike out. When Daddy would see me crying, he’d launch into his best Tom Hanks impression from A League of Their Own. “Are you crying? There’s no crying in softball!”
When he did these things, he taught me that we can choose to find the funny side of life, even when it seemed to my adolescent heart like a real tragedy.
But right now we are in the midst of a real tragedy- of losing him. It doesn’t feel like small stuff at all. I’ll be the first to admit it’s harder to find the lighter side of all this, but I can guarantee you that’s exactly what he would want us to do.
So, with that in mind, when you look at the clock and it says 2:30, remember that’s when he made all his dentist appointments. The next time you see a moth flopping around on the floor, don’t worry because another moth will inevitably come along and give him moth to moth resuscitation. And remember that Hugh, and only Hugh, can prevent florist friars.
