JOHN "JOE" MILT DAVIDSON Jr.

life story

JOE 1981

Although it appears white, this shirt was a pale yellow, his favorite color. I think it was a birthday gift from mom. Joe also HATED having his picture taken with his glasses on, so we snuck this one in somehow. He died just a few weeks after this April 1981 portrait.

FATHERHOOD

My Dad was born at the family home in Wurtland, Kentucky to farmers Lula Gose and John Milt "J.M." Davidson Sr. as one of their eventual 13 children. As a "Jr." he shared his father's name, but came to be called "Joe" as a youngster. Like his brothers, Dad was stout and strong enough to prove himself a vital contributor to the labor force required in operating a farm, and his father owned three!

His physique helped Dad to develop into a formidable football player, but Dad only managed to graduate from the eighth grade before dropping out to work full-time at home, yet his education continued. He loved to read (a passion he passed down to me) both fiction and non-fiction and he possessed a vivid imagination of his own. He became a decent mechanic, but his strengths also included carpentry (and furniture making), masonry, plumbing and electricity, all of which allowed him to construct an entire home from pouring the footer to putting the roofing caps on without the use of any blueprints. A math whiz, he could figure the amount of materials required to within a few dollars.

After a first marriage and a stint in the Navy during World War II (he was stationed in the Pacific Theater as a gunner), Dad fathered his first child, Lana, in 1946. When his first marriage dissolved, Dad began helping his father to run a grocery store while maintaining his own construction company. He met my mother on a blind date set up by his friend Clyde Ealey (Mom was Clyde's date, but they ended up switching partners and then married them) and before you knew it, Dad bought a house and they were expecting their first and only son (me), followed by a baby girl two years later they named Rhonda (my BFF).

Dad managed to do a stellar job as a provider despite the fact that he had never punched a time-clock and always remained self-employed except for one instance. When he broke his leg once after falling from a ladder, he managed to insure a decent Christmas for his kids by taking a job in a Baltimore factory where he could assemble electrical apparatus while remaining seated.

His generosity also extended to others whenever he saw a need. Children who would walk from the end of the cul-de-sac we lived on to the little B&P Market (owned by Bill & Peggy Colvin) in Raceland that sat at the top of the street, were often greeted by Dad on their way back home with their little hands clutching bags of penny candy. "Hey, may I have a piece of your candy?" he would ask, and while most would wrinkle up their noses or ignore him and proceed without breaking their stride, a couple of the younger ones in particular would always stop and open their little paper sacks to let Dad chose one. As he reached in for a Mary Jane or Tootsie Roll, he always dropped a dime or quarter in as a reward for their willingness to share.

As I grew older, he often hired some of my less-than-fortunate friends to help on certain construction jobs as a means to provide them with some income and gain them some experience in the manly arts. Like his own father, he was generally humble and well mannered (qualities he expected from his children as well), but when his temper did flare it was terrifying. He despised dishonesty and disrespect and was not afraid to call someone out if he suspected their motives.

Another thing we shared was a strong respect for women (like I had a choice with four sisters) and a sympathetic heart for the underprivileged, the under-appreciated, and underdogs in general. Nothing got Dad hotter under the collar than injustice and apathy. He possessed an especially strong affinity for children, the elderly and animals, and was unafraid to speak up for them when he witnessed any exploitation of the weak or the voiceless. His heroic notions now unfortunately seem antiquated and old-fashioned by modern standards, in practice if not in belief.

In some ways, I must have disappointed the old man because his only son didn't share his manly love for sports, power tools, automobiles or the great outdoors, but I did eventually warm up to the latter. Dad did fuel my love of comics by reading them to me at night instead of fairy tales, and would later regularly enrichen my allowance enough that I never had to miss an issue of Batman or the Fantastic Four. Dad loved comics too and still had a few issues from the 1940s and '50s that became mine upon his demise.

As a toddler I often took books off of the shelf and would spend hours just looking at pictures and pretending to read out loud, which prompted him to teach me to read before I began 1st grade. When I was old enough to understand the proper care of valuables, he began allowing to me read his comic books as well as buying new ones for me occasionally whenever he'd stop in to the drug store (no comic shops existed until the late '80s). He was a fan of the early pulp heroes like The Phantom, The Shadow, and Doc Savage and their clear sense of right-and-wrong was not lost on me.

With scraps of lumber left over from countless remodeling jobs, Dad built a four-story treehouse in our backyard, the only one in the 'hood. It became my personal "Fortess of Solitude", a quiet place to escape to whenever I needed somewhere to read my books in peace.

Dad and I both relished certain TV shows like the Twilight Zone (the only program I was allowed to stay up after my bedtime to watch), Night Gallery, Star Trek and Kolchak: The Night Stalker (an X-Files prototype).

As I became a teen and my love of music expanded exponentially, Dad wasn't exactly pleased with my desire to grow out my hair (something acutely taboo and harshly monitored by my high school) and I thought he'd disown me when I pierced my ear (also forbidden in the Draconian rule system at Russell High), but he slowly warmed up to it and defended my actions when others chastised him for allowing it. And while he likely couldn't rationalize my fondness for KISS, when I began profiting from their popularity by co-creating what was probably the world's first tribute act (other than Elvis impersonators) KISS II, he understood that it really meant something to others and helped us to construct whatever massive stage props we needed to replicate a KISS stage.

It would be nice to have had him here for a glorious 100th birthday celebration, but it was not to be his fate. Born in 1921, Dad died at age 60 after suffering a brain aneurysm in July 1981. The years of sun and wind had hardened his features and caused him to look somewhat older than his true age, but his gentle nature was unaffected. I was born in 1961 and since August 25th, I've outlived him, but I'm not certain that living to 100 is a cakewalk. I'm more afraid of living too long than I am of dying.

On the cosmic scale, a century is but a blink of an eye compared to eternity, but from a human perspective it is more than a lifetime to all except a small number of Centurians. I realize many people never even know their fathers, or have ones that are abusive or uncaring, so with that in mind, I do thank the good Lord that I was blessed with wonderful and loving parents who encouraged their kids to pursue our dreams and yet taught us to remain grounded and considerate of others. I'm very grateful to have had him for as long as I did.

Modern heroes are not so easily identifiable as good guys or bad guys as they have become more ambivalent and ambiguous, but I still love to read a good heroic story from time to time and I owe it all to my first and most important real-life hero, John Milt Davidson Jr. who always took time for his children to raise them properly and always made every day seem like MY birthday. ~ Gregg