This past week, my father, Joe Reaves, passed away. It wasn't totally unexpected yet, despite our knowing that this was imminent, we were not ready for it. His funeral went flawlessly, a tribute to a man of faith that only wanted to go join his beloved wife Fran and daughter Marti. God granted him that wish last Wednesday afternoon. Dad, who struggled with why he was still here now has the answer.
Joe Reaves was the genuine article. He was incredibly talented, singing, dancing and acting his way to Hollywood. And, I'm especially thankful for this - he rejected what amounted to a blank check from Warner Brothers to make him a star so that he could raise his new son and hold on to his beautiful young wife. He knew that the two worlds would never mix. He often told the story of walking down a foggy street in San Francisco at the time and having what amounted to an epiphany of sorts. He knew then that he would return to Atlanta.
Of course, once the "ham" is in your blood, it's hard to get it out. He became a broadcast personality, first on radio (WGST, WPTF and others) and then on television in Atlanta. He hung out in the television "crowd" though never fell into its behavior. There has been much family lore about how happy or distressed Dad was to have walked away from certain stardom. He has always protested that his family was his single most important purpose in life. Many of us wondered and now we probably never know.
The greatest memory I have of my father? There are many. Once, we were on an "Indian Guides" outing somewhere in Georgia when the 1960 Ford of Dad's suffered its rear window blowing out from the heat of the day. Rain was in the forecast, so he knew we had to return home. It was late that evening and I remember him telling me to lay in his lap while he put a blanket over me to protect me from any blowing glass. It was just Dad protecting me from harm. There are many stories like this.
My Uncle John, Dad's older brother threw me into Lake Lanier when I was 3 or 4 while in his cups, sure that it would be the quickest way to teach me how to swim. It was Dad who dove in, pulled my sinking body out of the water, cleared my airway and told Uncle John that if he ever did that again, he would (fill in the blank). It was 10 years before my fear of water subsided enough to learn how to swim.
Another time he undoubtedly saved my life was when I was a senior in high school, bound and determined to do my duty for my country during the Vietnam War. Without telling anyone, I went down and enlisted in the Marine Corps. After all, my brother Graham was a Marine. After about a month of suggestions here and there by my Dad that I reconsider the branch I had chosen, Dad sat me down for a talk. I believe it was the same week the first Draft Lottery came out. My number was 179 and I would never have been drafted. We had one of the few "all-nighters" in my life. Dad knew that my mind wouldn't be changed to enter the military but he finally convinced me to enter the Navy, his choice in the past during WWII. Since the Marines are part of the Department of the Navy and since my lottery number indicated I would never get drafted, the recruiters made the switch. It truly did probably save my life.
Dad's one undeniable flaw was his lack of patience. When Mom had her stroke in 1994, he had to become her caretaker. Eight years of caring for the love of your life as they slowly descend into helplessness is a great teacher of patience. As Dad basically just waited to join her after her death, he spent six more years learning the last measure of patience. Whatever he's doing now, God must have needed him to learn that one lesson.
I will miss him.
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