By: Jefferson Weaver
I had to say ‘no’ to a fellow the other day, and I heard my father.
The details of the refusal aren’t important; what matters is that we parted on good terms. My friend’s firm has some ties that I find not just questionable, but downright wrong, and it would have been wrong for me to be part of it.
Although it’s a lesson I have often failed to remember, Tom Weaver did his best to teach me that a feather is often more effective than a club. He could disagree with almost anyone and still remain on good terms. It’s a skill far too rare these days, in a time where disagreement is viewed as personal condemnation, when gently stepping on toes is considered hatred.
His gentility, among other things, was even more evident after I ran across yet another box of the Old Man’s correspondence the other day (the moving process may be finished, but the sorting and purging is never ending).
I was surprised, although I shouldn’t have been, to find letters from men whose names loomed large on the opposite side of the political fence from my Old Man. Folks whose platforms Papa had eviscerated in editorials, and who eviscerated Papa in return, wrote paragraphs asking about Mother, we children, and even the tobacco market. The sincere small talk was at odds with the vehemence of the positions held on both sides, whether it was abortion, gun control, states rights or unions.
The fact that Mr. Tom stood solid but politely on his beliefs was revealed with my discovery that letters from Hubert Humphrey were in the same file folder as Jesse Helms. That was back in the day when elected officials understood the difference between hatred of an issue and hatred of each other.
I well recall a lovely spring day when I found Papa on the porch, deep in earnest conversation with a fellow about my own age with shoulder-length blonde hair and a union logo on his shirt. Papa had a cup of coffee, the visitor a glass of tea. Papa said later that the visitor was one of the men working to organize the workers at a local plant, a move that my father found repugnant. At the Old Man’s funeral, that selfsame fellow came up to me with tears in his eyes, and talked about how “Mr. Tom was a special kind of man.”
A lot of people thought Tom Weaver was a special kind of man, and I’m not just saying that as an unapologetic devotee of my father.
The Old Man was at home almost anywhere he went, be it a fancy hotel in Washington City or a country store, a country club or a junkyard. He was no radical desegregationist, by any means, but he looked at a man or woman and saw them first as a man or woman, not black or white or Latino or oriental. He was a product of a generation that often still added an adjective that referred to the color of a person’s skin, but the few times that a smartmouthed boy named Jefferson used a common, albeit rude, word describing African Americans, the Old Man showed his capacity for Old Testament wrath.
He was often called the last Southern Gentleman, but Tom Weaver was a gentle man, too. He hated the annual problem of unwanted deer dogs dumped beside the highways; it upset him that most places spent far more tax dollars euthanizing unwanted pets than they did spaying, neutering or solving the problem, period. At the same time, we couldn’t bring home every stray that we found, although we were expected to find the critter a home somewhere.
Tom Weaver was best known as a newspaperman, but long before that, he was a jazz musician, a vagabond of sorts, a hardware dealer, and the coach and manager of a semi-pro baseball team. Community newspapers, however, became his first love after Mother. He rarely wanted a nice gift or souvenir if someone travelled out of town – he wanted newspapers to read and study and compare to the ones he knew and loved.
The Old Man never considered a woman as anything but a lady until she proved herself otherwise, and even then there had to be no doubt. I cannot count how many times he reminded me that there is beauty in every single woman, regardless of how she looks or dresses. Some considered him a harmless but incorrigible flirt – and he was – but even the slightest suspicion of anything untoward would be erased as soon as Miss Lois walked into the room.
He and mother never quit courting; sure, they fought sometimes, like all couples do, but they were each other’s best friend, above all else. The Old Man taught me that a husband’s first job is to honor, protect, lead, and love his wife. He never lacked a compliment for Mother, and made sure we knew to appreciate her. Disrespect toward him was one thing – but he proved to my oldest sister that even a late teenager ain’t too old for a spanking if she “sassed” her mother.
The closest Tom Weaver ever came to violence, at least in my lifetime, was when a child (especially his own) was hurt or threatened. If a discreet word didn’t work, or a sharper, more pointed explanation of the problem, or (if necessary) the intervention of an authority – Papa was ready, willing and able to take things to the next level. He never had to, as far as I know, but it came awfully close once or twice. While he might not have won, his presence would have been remembered.
He was the kind of father who, if he didn’t know the answers, he knew someone who did. He could find anything in his library of books that was so eclectic as to make a used book store owner swoon, or a librarian mourn. He was the same way about skills – when I wanted to hunt (as activity he didn’t have the heart for) he made sure I had mentors who would teach me the right way.
With other things, he was the teacher. When I was little, I’d watch a children’s ministry show called “Uncle Hank.” It came on Sunday mornings, and one morning, as the Old Man was shaving, I wanted to know more about what Uncle Hank meant. Papa finished shaving, took down his Bible and we read, then prayed. Later that morning, he sat beside me when Rev. Tom Freeman gave the invitation, and I accepted Christ as my savior.
The Old Man taught me that fishing takes patience, baseball takes practice, and sleep doesn’t come to a guilty conscience. He taught me that in our family, a gentleman dresses well out of respect for those he works and serves. He taught me about old architecture and solid American automobiles; books and faith; good dogs and bad men; diplomacy and politics; laws and morality; sharpening a knife; history and heritage; true compliments and flattery; the honesty of dirty fingernails; how to hang a door, craft a letter, or trim a tree; how to deal with an angry bull, a belligerent drunk or a furious grandmother; the art and honor of agreeing to disagree, and a thousand other lessons and skills I use and often fail at every day.
One thing he didn’t teach me was how not to miss him, even 15 years after we said goodbye for the last time – after, of course, I had to promise to look after Mother.
He was hours from death, but his first concern was his wife and family.
My father, Tom Weaver, was like that – he was a special kind of man.
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