A Man Named Berline

Last week, Tuesday was October 29.  It would have been Dad’s 97^th birthday.  This year, for the first time in 15 years, he got to spend it with the love of his life.

When he passed away in 2004 I read the following tribute at his funeral.

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            Before I start, I have an announcement to make.  My son, T.J., wanted me to tell everyone that the entries into the “World’s Greatest Grandpa and Great-Grandpa Competition” are closed.  We’ve counted the votes and made our selection.

            I woke up well before dawn this morning and lay there thinking for a while.  I imagined what it must have been like in heaven the day that Dad went home.  I could just see St. Peter talking to God.

God said, “Any new arrivals today?”

            St. Peter replied, “Well, we had to bend the rules a little, but Berline Matthews will be here today.  Any suggestions, God?”

            God nodded in all his wisdom and grace and answered, “Well, I wouldn’t make him mad.”

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            Yes, my dad had a temper.  Some people thought he was mean.  I know he wasn’t although he certainly seemed like it at times.  He had every right to be.  His natural father died at the age of thirty-seven, when my dad was only five years old.  It is hard for many of us today to believe, but Dad had to drop out of school in the fourth grade to help support his family.  At nine, he was doing backbreaking work from dawn to dusk, and every cent he made went to help feed and clothe his family.  He grew up in the midst of the worst depression the United States has ever known when, many times, his family did not know where they would find their next meal.  Dad came of age in the south Pacific, fighting to preserve the freedom that many of us take for granted today.  These things made my father tough.  They made him courageous… and more than a little bull-headed.  But he was never mean, even though, at times, he seemed that way to those of us who loved him.

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            In losing his father, my dad learned that family is the most important gift we have.  One of the few things he regretted in life was that our family could not be “picture perfect.”  He loved his wife and every one of his kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids, though he often had a strange way of showing it.

            Dropping out of school taught Dad the value of education.  He pushed others to get the education that he never had the opportunity to.

            Working so hard all his life taught him that a person can do much more than they think they are capable of, when the need arises.  As he would say, after putting in a twelve-hour day at work, and while firing up the tractor on the farm, “A little hard work never hurt nobody.”

            Growing up in the midst of the depression taught him the importance and value of money, as well as the fact that money could not buy the most important things in life: love, family, and friends.

            Fighting in the war taught him to endure; even when you think you cannot go on, you must endure.  And it taught him to never, ever take for granted the freedoms that we hold true.

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            While I was growing up, I sometimes thought I could not accomplish what my dad wanted me to.  “I can’t,” I would say.  Dad would reply, “Can’t never done nothin’.”

Dad’s work ethic achieved almost mythical proportions in and around Malden.  Everyone knew, if they needed a job done, done right, and done right now, to call on Berline Matthews.  Mom and Dad owned a trucking company for many years.  Once, a long time ago, dad had to go to New Orleans to pick up a load of bananas, and the only person he could find to help him drive was his teenaged nephew, Billy Cross.  With more than a tad of reluctance, Billy climbed into the cab as snow swirled around them.  The snowfall increased and, before long, vehicle after vehicle pulled to the side of the road.  Dad should have done the same but, in his mind, you couldn’t stop working until the job was done.  As driving conditions worsened, Billy decided that the safest place to be in case of an accident was the floorboard of the truck.  I can see my dad now, laughing as he said, “You can’t drive down there.”  To which Billy replied, “Well, you’re not doing a real good job driving up there either!” 

Of course, they made it.

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            Dad was ashamed of his lack of education but, as my sister, Pam, said, he had earned a Masters Degree from the School of Hard Knocks.  When he was foreman of Stokes Brothers Cotton Gin, they undertook a complete remodel.  Owner John Howell asked if Dad could read a blueprint.  Dad said, “Yes,” even though he had never looked at a blueprint in his life.  Then he proceeded to oversee the remodeling of the gin.  When the engineer from Continental Gins returned to see how the work was going, he looked at the work, commented that it was not done according to the blueprints, and asked to see the man who changed it.  Dad walked in, and the engineer said, “You changed our blueprints and, doggoned if you didn’t improve our design.  Do you mind if I copy off you?”

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            There are many stories I could tell you about my dad, but now is not the time.  Now is the time to honor a man who did so many honorable things, but never, ever asked for honors.  Now is the time to say goodbye to this shell that we know is no longer the man we love and admire.

When I first thought about presenting this tribute to my dad, some people told me I couldn’t make it through it, and I knew it would be tough.  But it was a job that needed to be done, and it was up to me to do it.  Besides, I know, if I stood here and said, “I just can’t do this,” we would hear a voice boom down from the heavens, “Can’t never done nothin’!”

I love you, Dad.

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