“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.” – Unknown
Some of my fondest Thanksgiving memories are as a child hunting rabbits with Dad on Uncle Paul’s farm just north of Nashville, Tenn. We hiked across fields of brown fescue, contented with not seeing Bugs Bunny scamper across a red clay ditch, zig-zagging for self-preservation sake. There stood Dad, hound dogs barking, at the ready with DaddyHink’s (Granddaddy Hinkle) Stevens .16-gauge shotgun that would one day be mine. It was made in 1927, the same year Babe Ruth hit 60 home runs. I am reminded about the power of memories with the famous lines uttered by James Earl Jones in the baseball movie, Field of Dreams: “They’ll watch the game, and it’ll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they’ll have to brush them away from their faces.”
Thanksgivings were special. It was the one time I had dad all to myself. Yes, we were hunting rabbits, but as I reminisce, I realize there was more to those hillbilly safaris than searching for Peter Cottontail.
Dad tried to talk to me about “the birds and the bees” (I’ve always suspected due to mom’s urging). He’d start with a stutter and a stammer before changing the subject. I remember one year in which he started his presentation, then nervously warned me that I must never relieve myself on an electric fence. I would develop ambition, but becoming a lit Christmas tree was not in my plans.
Once that was settled, we would give up hunting Peter Rabbit and head back to the house where mom would be finishing the turkey and dressing. I am reminded about the debate we had on whether it was stuffing or dressing. We concluded that it was stuffing if stuffed in the turkey and dressing if served separate from the bird. Mom always had her cornbread dressing ready when we walked into the house. The aroma permeated the kitchen, urging us to remove our overcoats and boots as quickly as possible before sprinting to the dinner table.
An hour later we would be in the floor, victims of a tryptophan attack. By the fourth quarter of the Green Bay Packers at Detroit Lions game, we’d be up for some leftovers and a piece of mom’s pecan pie. It was a perfect ending to a day of hunting, feasting and football.
It’s Thanksgiving again, and it’s been 32 years since dad, at age 60, went to be with Jesus. I am blessed to have had a dad who loved my mother, brother, sister and me. Dad was a Christian gentleman. He ran his business honorably, always desiring to help others as if their well-being depended on him alone. Though he only had an eighth-grade education (he had to quit school to help with the family business – a sawmill located in “Hinkle Hollow”), he was a successful businessman who provided for his family.
Dad had a sense of humor. He was among a cast of local characters loitering at his gas station, telling tall tales and solving the world’s problems. He would frequently sneak up on customer friends, pinching them on the back of the thigh while letting out a shrill, ear-splitting whistle. The victim would jump like a kangaroo while everyone else burst into laughter.
Dad had a language all his own. Every time I would do something stupid, he’d say, “Boy, what in the cat-hair are you doin?” I regret not asking him where he got the term “cat-hair?” He was a Korean War veteran, so I guess that is why he often affectionately referred to mom as “mommasahn.” When frustrated, rather than say, “I declare,” he would say, “I’ll swunny.” It rhymes with “sunny,” but I have no idea how to spell it. I’m sure it came out of a hillbilly dictionary.
I’m thankful to God for giving me a dad who loved and served Jesus. He loved me, too. Years after the fact, mom told me dad cried all the way home the day they dropped me off at the airport as I left to serve the next 10 years of my life in the Air Force.
I have plaques and awards hanging in my offices at home and the Baptist Building. None mean as much to me as the one that says, “Presented to Tracy Hinkle by Grace Baptist Church for Outstanding Christian Service as a Baptist Layman.” This Thanksgiving I am thankful to have the memories of my dad, and I hope I have lived up to Proverbs 10:1, “A wise son makes a glad father.”