In loving memory of Darrel (“Darryl”) Wayne Trantham, my father
May 5, 1943 – November 11, 2016
My father was my hero. He was not faster than a speeding bullet but he was quick to help someone in need. He was not more powerful than a locomotive but was the source of my strength when I needed it most. He could not leap tall buildings in a single bound but he inspired me and so many others to reach new heights.
And unlike most superheroes, his identity was not secret. He was known by many names: son, brother, husband, father, grandpa, uncle, cousin, neighbor, friend, colleague, teacher. Darryl spelled with a “y” and Darrel spelled with an “e”
If he were to have chosen a superhero’s name it might have been Mr. History, the Electronics Wiz, the Crossword Crusader or Captain Cowboy.
He had many gifts some of which seemed almost superhuman. For example, he once spotted a spool of wire that had been discarded by the side of the road. So, he stopped and rescued it. After all, it was perfectly good wire and I’m sure it’s connected to one of the switches in his house that we’re now struggling to figure out what it turns on or off.
He could sense a dirty dish from across the room. Mind you, when I was growing up a dirty dish had no place in our house, least of all in the dishwasher. In fact, he once asked in a voice that could be heard from afar: “who put this dirty dish in the dishwasher?” To him, dishes were to be washed before you put them in the dishwasher. When he purchased a high-tech model later in life, he was a bit perplexed to learn that it wouldn’t work properly unless some of the dishes were actually dirty.
He had x-ray vision which enabled him to see the uneaten lima beans my brother Chris had hidden beneath his mashed potatoes. And he could see the Brussels sprouts I’d hidden beneath Chris’s mashed potatoes. Not wanting to test his x-ray vision, my sister Gwen opted simply to eat the lima beans and Brussels sprouts which is why she was Dad’s favorite. In hindsight both Chris and I should have hidden our lima beans and Brussels sprouts beneath Gwen’s mashed potatoes.
If Dad could have chosen an actual superpower for himself it would have been the ability to control electronic devices with his mind. But since that was not possible he relied upon remotes. And he had a remote for everything. No less than three remotes were required to watch television in his house. When he entered the hospital he even attached a remote to a fan so that he could turn it on and off himself without getting out of bed or calling for a nurse.
Like all superheroes he had one major weakness. For my father it was his love for my mother. He would have done anything for her and he did. They met in college when she got her finger stuck in a notebook and he had to rescue her. Thus beginning a romance that lasted for more than 47 years. My father’s devotion to my mother was first tested when they were newlyweds. His mother-in-law came for a visit and stayed. Being the gracious person that he was, he installed a red light on the back of the house so that Mother Myrtle, who was confined to a wheelchair, could signal to the the young couple frolicking in the nearby pool when she needed something. Of all the hundreds of lights he installed over the years this was the only one he regretted.
My father and mother’s marriage was a partnership founded on respect and admiration. They rarely disagreed. They insisted that we three children have well-rounded educations. We were expected to do our personal best in school. Each of us took piano lessons and learned to play another musical instrument. Chris also played basketball, I took art lessons and Gwen joined the Bluebirds. And each of one us knows how to swing a hammer and pour concrete.
As teachers our parents had the same three months off that we had as students. Summers meant two things to my father: it was time to build things and time to take advantage of free labor. My father would remind us frequently that summer was a vacation from school, not from work.
The summer projects started off innocent enough but grew in size and scope. What we children did not understand was that the digging out of the basement, the remodeling of the bathroom and then the kitchen, and the raising of the barn were simply preparing us for the grand finale: the family room and master bedroom – a summer project that spanned several years. My father’s work ethic was herculean but sometimes we just wanted to sleep past 6 a.m. without being awakened by the sound of bricks being torn from the side of the house.
My parent’s marriage and the love they shared for one another grew as the years marched on. And the family grew with the introduction of a daughter-in-law, a son-in-law, five grandchildren and many others who my parents welcomed into their lives with open arms.
As our mother’s health declined in her later years, our father assumed the role of caretaker. And like a true hero, he sacrificed many things for her happiness and wellbeing but said nothing of it. To him, helping others was a privilege, not a responsibility. After her death, he took it upon himself to finish the quilts she had started or planned for her children, grandchildren and other family members. He learned to sew and with the help of friends and neighbors he fulfilled her wishes that each of the quilts should be hand sewn.
A reflection of my father’s life would not be complete without mentioning his passion for American history. A natural-born storyteller, he chose a profession that enabled him to share his passion everyday: teaching. For the thousands of students who passed through “Mr. Trantham’s” classroom, it must have been an experience indeed. His eyes would sparkle when he recounted the epic challenges Americans faced during the Great Depression and two World Wars. Presidents, generals, scoundrels and even scoundrelous presidents came alive in his stories as if they were close personal friends. And he inspired a new generation of teachers to share in his passion as a mentor and respected colleague.
It is said that it is risky to place anyone, even a parent, on a pedestal. But I confess that I have no desire to place my father on a pedestal; I aspire simply to join him on it. For it will have meant that I have lived my life as he did, serving and loving others with humility, generosity and a selflessness that knew no bounds.
I have no memory of the day I fell into the lake. I was a toddler. What I know of this event I was told when I was older. We had taken a ride on a plane that could land on water. It was late in the day I imagine when the ride ended and the sun was setting. As we were getting off the plane I broke free from my parent’s grip, charged down the ramp to the dock and tumbled into the lake. I have no memory of the cold and murky waters that must have enveloped me or the panic that must have ensued up above. My father dove headfirst into the dark abyss in the spot where I was last seen. Unable to see, he reached out blindly as he swam deeper and deeper until he finally found me. But, I have no memory of him grabbing the back of my shirt collar and pulling me to the surface; nor of him delivering me safely into my mother’s loving arms.
Many years later he told me that returning to the surface without me would have been an unacceptable outcome for my mother. Either we were both coming up together or neither of us. And as I contemplate my life without him today I cannot help but ask: who will grab me by the back of the shirt collar in the days to come and pull me from the depths of my sorrow?
For my father was my hero and my hero has fallen.
Kenfolk: Tranthams
Relation: Father
Common ancestors: Half of them
