A Eulogy Without a Funeral

Dad kept a $2 bill in his Bible. I don’t remember how old I was the first time I saw it tucked between the onion-skin pages of the large black leatherbound King James Version embossed in gold script: Alvin Bradley Harp. Its provenance has slipped my mind, but I recall that it had been put there many years before, and its purpose I never forgot: that $2 bill remained in his Bible as assurance that he’d never be broke. 

He grew up hardscrabble on Lookout Mountain and then went to Mount Berry School for Boys where his education depended on his work ethic. He earned his way through high school by the sweat of his brow and the toil of his hands. His college years took a similar course - classes juggled with jobs to pay the way. I think it was around this time that the $2 bill found its way into the Bible. A bookmark of his promise to rise above that particular circumstance of his early life.

And he carried out his mission. Dad was never broke again. He died with that $2 bill still tucked away in his Bible and the fruit of his labors carefully saved. But what he may not have fully known was just how rich he was. 

He was rich in respect and admiration. He dedicated more than half his life to the poultry industry and developed expertise from eggs to processing. He could drive a long-haul route, work a catching crew and trace a case of coccidiosis like an avian Sherlock. Those who worked with him knew his work ethic and integrity. Those who worked for him knew his mentorship. And those who knew of him did so because his reputation preceded him.

He was admired in the same way for his commitment to our family. I knew this commitment firsthand, but in his final days, I became aware of just how much it was observed by others, how many saw that he was a good husband and a good father, and in later years, a good grandfather. He was simply a good man. Goodness is a virtue many fail to cultivate, but Dad had it in spades.

Dad had abundant practical knowledge of how things worked. I remember him teaching me why it hails during warmer weather and the purpose of a catalytic convertor. Information that’s a mere Google search away now was stored in his head with encyclopedic precision. He sketched diagrams, gestured dramatically and smiled proudly when you finally comprehended his lesson. I called him before I set about repairing anything in our house, because he generally knew how to fix the problem. In his honor, I will carry on the tradition of throwing tools and swearing roundly.

Dad was gifted with storytelling. He could spin a yarn, unspooling tales in his melodious Southern accent. He was a font of colloquialisms that only added to the charm of any anecdote: couldn’t hem a hog in a ditch; Lord willing and the creek don’t rise; rode hard and put up wet. I know there were times in my youth that I didn’t fully appreciate his spinning, but I like to think in later years, Dad knew how much I treasured the stories he told me. 

Most of all, Dad was rich in love. This, I hope he knew. No one could doubt the devotion he and Mom shared. They poured their hearts and souls into each other and into their family for 53 years. I can still picture Dad arriving home from work and standing at the bottom of the stairs to the kitchen while Mom stood on the third riser to give him a kiss hello. His children loved and revered him - from the life lessons he taught us in formative years to the wisdom he imparted when we sought it as adults. He had a few lesson failures, too. He couldn’t teach Anna to drive stick shift, Justin to spell or me to have any sense of direction. His in-laws considered him family, and he considered them honorary Harps. And his grandchildren felt his joy as he chased, tickled, tossed and cuddled each of them. 

Dad was loved, and he gave love. His love, he spent freely. He hugged mightily - so tall and long-armed and big-handed that he could swallow you in a hug that felt like you were wrapped up in his heart. He spoke his love, telling us he loved us every day growing up and every chance he got when we were grown. He never held back his pride in us, and it was never conditional. It wasn’t the game-winning strikeout or the straight-A report card that earned us the most accolades but how we handled what he dubbed “character builders” - those low, challenging moments that gave us opportunities to demonstrate grit in the face of adversity. 

He spent his time with us. If we wanted Dad to be there for something, he was. He never missed a game or a play or a thesis defense; he was always at the front of the cheering section. And when there were disappointments and sorrows, he was there, too. Usually with one of those signature hugs.          

Dad had a plan never to be broke. He invested in a good life that he enjoyed to its fullest. He earned the love and devotion of his family. Many called him a good friend. He laughed often and ate well. He lived his faith. He felt wonder and never stopped learning. And the way held on to that $2 bill, I will hold on to my memories of him. I will keep them as a reminder of the life he lived, of all that he invested in me and others, and I will endeavor to carry on investing in those I love in the same way so that when we meet again, he’ll tell me I lived a good life, too.

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Please feel welcome to share your memories and encouragement with the family in the comments.