There's Always Someone Who Has It Rougher

Twelve years is a long time and that's how long it will be July 18 - 12 years since my daddy, Norval Wallace, passed away.

Twelve years.

And yet, I can still see him (in my mind) sitting at the kitchen table, hands folded, head down, deep in thought. I still hear his voice in my head reminding me of the advice he gave. I remember the joy he got from simple things. His laugh and sense of humor.

I remember some of his challenges and how he met each one with grace.

He joined the United States Marines as a young man to serve his country during the Korean war era. A service cut short when he was diagnosed with polio.

He returned home.  He came back to help his father on the family farm. He met a girl. They married and had six children.

Daddy farmed and at the same time worked other jobs to support his family. Jobs he referred to as his "town jobs".  Through his life time he served as County Assessor, worked as a high school teacher, worked in the local social services office and the newspaper.

He worked.

He did what he needed to do to make sure his family was provided for.

He was there for all of us.

When we failed. When we succeeded. He was right there encouraging and cheering us on. Or even disciplining us when we needed it.

He was the voice of reason. A calm in the storm - no matter what challenges, he, himself night be facing.

And through all the storms he faced - I rarely heard him complain. He walked with the aide of braces on his legs. He stared cancer down and won.

When asked what kept him going he would reply, "I remind myself there is always someone out there who has it rougher than me."

He was patient. He was kind. He was always there to lend a helping hand. My daddy had the warmest smile, and a great sense of humor.

He was my rock. And I miss him so very much. He might not have had all the answers, but he had enough. He knew how to show us how to face what was challenging us even if the outcome wasn't what we wanted. I have particularly felt his absence after losing my husband and a daughter.

He stepped in when I was a single parent of three little girls and filled a void in their lives. Without hesitation, when my oldest, Amanda, had a father-daughter dance, he drove two and a half hours to take her.

When I was going through a particularly rough patch in my life, he drove again. He stayed with me for a few days letting me rest while he got my daughters ready for school, fixed their hair, and was just there to hold my hand and give me comfort.

When I went in to journalism, he read everything I wrote. He didn't try to make me in to who he wanted me to be, he loved me for who I was.

Although he had a handicapped placard for his vehicle - he rarely parked in handicapped spaces. Again, stating someone else might need it worse than he. Giving that up, as he struggled to maneuver with his leg braces.

There are so many things about my daddy that I remember. I see bits and pieces of him in my siblings, his grandchildren and proudly from time to time in myself.

His lessons and love will carry on for generations to come.