THE TALE OF THREE MEN

My father founded an exterminating company in the small town of Bartow, Florida in the second half of this past century, and by the time he retired in the early 90’s I think he’d terminated every ant, roach, termite and rat for 500 square miles. And in so doing became fast friends with their intolerant caretakers.

My dad was one of those characters you never forget, and whose name lives on in the community which he loved and in which he served. More times than I care to recount strangers have told me,

“Your last name is familiar. Are you Henry McDonald’s son?”

(or)

“I knew a fella once with that name. He was my exterminator for years. We wouldn’t have used anyone else to kill our bugs.”

(or)

“Your dad was always fair and square with me. And he was quite a guy all around.”

To which I have often simply responded,

“You know he’s gone now. He was a good father. And we miss him.”

Speaking of those who have gone on to their reward, I attended a memorial service today for a man named Roger whom I never had the pleasure of knowing. And if it seems strange that I would attend a service for someone I didn’t know, it may be important to mention that I know his brother.

I suppose Bob worked for my dad for “a good” twenty years, and to say he performed his job adequately would have been an understatement. And thus with anyone who procures a position in a private company, and gives as good as they get, and more, with time Bob gained my father’s comradery and respect, and yes, even

… the love of a father.

And so you might not think it strange that during the course of his employment Bob made it clear that when my father was ready to retire, he would very much like to purchase, “McDonald Exterminators.” Upon which, they’d shared a handshake, (and perhaps a frosty mug, as well).

Of course, any of my father’s four children might well have carried on in his name, (as did the daughter of his own sister; who was his closest competitor in the trade). But each of us had our own plans, and it seems none of those plans included insecticide, and the myriad of dead six legged creatures which are the result of a liberal application of such stuff. (The closest I ever came to any mild interest in the business was in my unique ability to sketch the American Cockroach. I recall it with a smile now, but I once entered one of my realistic drawings in a local art contest and won a blue ribbon).

But as the years increased like sand in the proverbial hour glass, and my dad set a date to “do the deed,” he fulfilled his promise to Bob to tender the business to him at, (as I recall) a less than fair market price. And given the good he’d done my dad, the value his name and work ethic had lent to the business, and the relationship they’d established, it was only well and proper for my father to do so.

And my own love and respect for Bob is such that as I was writing a condolence card for him, and his wife, Joanna, the other day it occurred to me to add a bit of cursive to the all-too formal pre-printed acknowledgments;

(which went something like…)

“Bob, while none of my father’s own children saw fit to carry on where he left off, I’m glad you have taken up the mantle, and made my dad’s legacy your heritage. I am appreciative of this, and the great love and friendship you shared with him.” (Reminiscent of an earlier written tribute to that relationship when I included Bob in the text of my father’s obituary, listing him as a God-son; for a son he definitely was).

As I walked into the funeral home yesterday to help celebrate the life of a man whom I never had the privilege of meeting, Bob greeted me at the door, and we exchanged a bit of small talk. 

Introducing me to another brother, he made him aware I was Henry’s son; the man from whom he’d purchased his business; (which by the way continues to thrive, and is lauded for the same excellent service for which my father was first known and respected).

And I responded to the introduction with,

“I’m the oldest and best looking of Henry’s three sons.”

To which Bob replied with that same wit, which I also value and emulate in my own life.

“That’s not saying much for your other brothers!”

And before I found my way into the auditorium I expressed my regrets to Bob, and reflected that,

“I always hate to see anyone leave this old world without having had the chance for a full life.” (Did I mention Roger was in his early 60’s when he left us)?

To which my friend responded,

“Oh, he definitely had a full life.” (At which point I mused that he was, at least, denied a long one).

I’d rarely seen so many people at a funeral or remembrance service. The chapel was full, and a couple dozen more were ushered into an overflow room. And as remarkable as the occasion was for its attendance, it proved just as memorable for its humor.

Did I mention the event was humorous? (Well, it was).

Just as I, at length, spoke at my own father’s memorial, Roger’s son, Blake, also memorialized him. And from my way of thinking he was nothing less than expert in the weaving of poignancy and hilarity. His first sentence was as full of comic relief and measured richness as his last.

“My dad was known for his gift of gab, and using as many words to share something brief as possible. I think by the time I finish you may accuse me of doing the same.”

(Without contradiction I can say that the young man was true to his word).

But I think his audience might have sat for another twenty minutes and more, and never complained. For he had us laughing ‘til tears rolled down our cheeks; while all the while extolling the virtues of his father.

It seems Roger, like his brother, Bob, gave as good as he got, and then some.

He was a good husband and father. He was never afraid of work. He coached Little League. He loved and supported his community. He was apt to work five days, and perform a favor or service for this or that friend or acquaintance on the weekend.

As Blake continued his diatribe, he repeated what was to become a well-worn phrase in the Edwards household; (and one which he may have occasionally wearied of hearing his father verbalize).

“You have to do the right thing simply because… it’s the right thing.”

And you might imagine that well-worn phrase caught my attention, since it is the same well-worn phrase of which I am guilty of using in my own personal and professional life.

I love that old song which words accent the virtue of loving people and lending a hand in the time of need.

If I can help somebody as I travel along.

If I can help somebody with a word or a song.

If I can help somebody from doing wrong

… then my living will not be in vain.

(Roger’s life was not lived in vain).

An afterglow of sorts was scheduled at a nearby university in which this good man’s life was to have been celebrated further, and in which friends and relatives were scheduled to share their remembrances of, and love for this fine man. I regret that other obligations prevented me from attending. I expect that event was just as poignant, and filled with as much rich hilarity as was the earlier service.

In the New Testament Book of Philippians the Apostle Paul utters a poignant two word phrase…

“Copy me.”

And any conscientious bearer of those two words does so at his own peril. For I have little doubt Providence will hold us all accountable for our words, (and subsequent actions, or the lack thereof).

Three men whose lives have not been lived in vain. Three men who have tried to do right as God gave them to see the light.

And that is not to say that any of them, (two gone on to their reward, and one remaining) were or are perfect. Far from it. But good men. Men concerned with perhaps the two greatest attributes for which they can possibly be remembered.

Their name and their word.

The tale of three men


by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 25. Copyright Pending.

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