She went straight to her daddy in the mechanic’s shop and told him what her supervisor said to her. He stopped what he was doing and went into the mill to have a word with the supervisor. He argued with the man and told him if he ever said another word to his daughter or daughter-in-law he would be sorry. Then he went back to work.

Early Saturday morning he told his wife he was going to the shop for a little while because there was a part that had to be fixed before Monday morning, but he would be home for dinner. He would be working by himself.

After a couple of hours a car pulled up outside the mechanic’s shop. Aunt Ollie’s supervisor was in the car with a friend, and they were both drunk. He called Grandpa out, saying they needed to talk about the day before. Grandpa walked out. The man threatened Grandpa and called him names. Grandpa told him to get out of there before he made him sorry he came. The man pulled a gun and shot Grandpa. Then they jumped into their car and drove off. Badly wounded in the stomach, he made his way towards home. It wasn’t far but it took him a long time because he was losing so much blood. He made it home, got inside and said, “He’s killed me,” and collapsed.

He was rushed to Florence General Hospital in Florence, SC, the closest hospital. He had emergency surgery and everyone waited around to see if he would make it. Tuesday, October 6, my grandfather, Brock Faircloth died. He was only 46 years old. He left a wife, four small children and his two older children—Ollie, a fifteen year old girl and Bobby, a seventeen year old man-boy who had taken a bride in February and still lived in his father’s home. No welfare, no social security.

The burden of caring for the family now fell on Bobby’s young shoulders. He and his wife had finally found a good house and they were expecting their first child in March. The money he had saved for furniture went to bury his father. He stayed and worked and supported his father’s family with a little help from his sister until she married. He remained until the young children were old enough to work. The girls married young.

Finally, with three children of his own he and his wife moved into their own home. Bobby worked hard and gave his wife and children everything he could. He never complained. He was a good son, a great husband and the best father anyone could ask for. I followed him around whenever I was given the opportunity—I was Daddy’s girl. I learned to drive a nail, paint a fence, and plant a tree under his guidance. Most importantly I learned to be fair, to be compassionate, to be honest, to work hard and to not complain about it. I learned what love really is from my father. Bobby Faircloth Sr. was born December 20, 1907 and blessed my life until November 20, 1982 when the Lord took him home so he could rest.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy; Happy Father’s Day to all you Dad’s that are there for your kids, you are special.