DOD

Dear Old Dad (or DOD, as my sister and I often called him) would've been 64 today. He died three days before his 62nd birthday. This was his eulogy.

Darrell Hutson was born in his great-grandparents’ house in Salem, Arkansas on August 11^th, 1950. He grew up in Salem, graduated high school, served in Viet Nam, worked, and had a family. He was a humble guy with modest taste, and he would appreciate that people remembered him simply, fondly, and sincerely, rather than with fanfare and flourish.

Darrell never met a stranger. He could drink coffee all day. He could take a nap anywhere. He loved barbecue and fried pies. He was an encyclopedia of advice when it came to tomato-growing success. He was the easiest guy in the world to buy a gift for (summer sausage and crackers). He loved feeding and photographing all the animals that came around his house. He was always humming a tune. He had a way with words (when asked by doctors to describe what he felt when he had kidney stones, he replied, “It felt like I was a-havin’ pups”). And he kept his sense of humor until the end (even though he had lost all his hair to radiation treatments, he told a nurse’s aide who touched his head, “Don’t mess up my hair”).

To Darrell’s friends and colleagues, he was a tireless teller of stories and drinker of coffee. He had an anecdote for most every situation and his sense of humor was his calling card. When he drove his daughters all over four counties showing them the projects that he was so proud to work on and telling them about the people he was so happy to work with, it was obvious that Darrell did not draw a hard line between work and fun—he really enjoyed the work he did and the people he worked for and with. And toward the end of Darrell’s illness, it was the faces of his two dearest friend-colleagues, Mark and JW, that cheered him up more than anything else.

When Darrell’s granddaughter was born, Dad became Pa, and Pa’s family quickly learned that he had a gift for calming a fussy baby. Pa would prop a crying baby Amelia up on his shoulder, walk around with her in the yard, and whisper to her about whatever they encountered, whether it was cattle or flowers or birds. By the time their walk was over, she was calm and sleepy, and the two of them would indulge in a nap. Pa collected doll houses and pink dresses instead of NASCAR memorabilia and fishing poles. Pa watched Disney movies instead of Westerns. And even when his sickness robbed him of his ability to taste food, Pa happily ate pink-and-purple birthday cupcakes that Amelia baked and decorated. 

It would be unfair to remember Darrell without remembering his love for his dog Sonic. Wherever Darrell went, Sonic went. Whatever Darrell ate, Sonic ate. And whatever Darrell felt, Sonic felt. Toward the end of Darrell’s illness, he was too weak to lift Sonic’s hind end into the vehicle, but he made sure to show his girls how to do it so that Sonic was a part of every visit. When Darrell became bedridden, Sonic showed total loyalty: he would not leave Darrell’s side. He slept as close to the bed as possible and nudged Darrell’s hand with his head. Sonic loved Darrell to the very end. They were best friends.

Darrell wasn’t one to use the word “pray”; he called it “talking to God.” When he was first diagnosed with his illness, he welcomed a chaplain to join him in talking to God, and he reaffirmed his faith. When his sister-in-law Sue spoke to him about his faith, he assured her that he and God had been talking. And when his time was very, very short, his family took comfort in his promise that he had been talking to God and was ready to again be with his parents and brother.

Last year, when Darrell, his girls, his granddaughter, and his friends and family thought that he had many, many birthdays left, his daughters wanted to surprise him with a family get-together and a birthday picnic at the river. Coordinating a surprise birthday party for some people may be difficult, but it wasn’t for Darrell: Melissa simply invited him to a picnic at the river, and Darrell replied happily, “I ain’t been on a picnic all year.” He ate fried chicken and sat in a lawn chair with his feet in the water while he watched his family play in the water with the relaxed delight of a man who had old age ahead of him to enjoy.

Darrell Hutson died on August 8^th, 2012, just three days shy of his 62^nd birthday. He leaves behind many loving friends, colleagues, and family members. In many ways, Darrell will be remembered a bit differently from person to person. To the folks at the VA, the DMV, and the Social Security office, he was John. To his friends and family, he was Darrell. To his daughters, he was Dad. To his granddaughter, he was Pa. But to everyone he was a lover of stories—stories to hear, stories to tell, and stories to file away for later. And today, this lover and teller of stories is gone…and the world is a little quieter.