Unabashed

My uncle, a burly, deadly, monster of a man, my mother’s brother, saw a picture of my father on Saturday and said to me:

“Before he was paralyzed, your dad was the coolest sumbitch on the planet.”

I wouldn’t know, of course, because my dad was paralyzed the year I was born (1969), and though I loved him and his humor, in my memory he will always be sadly lying in bed watching TV, hoping someone would come by for a visit. The doctors said he wouldn’t live six months, maybe a year, but he survived his condition for 31 years before a kidney stone finally killed him in 2000. That night, standing in the waiting room, the doctor approached and asked the family what should be done if my father’s heart failed, because he had a no resuscitation clause that would have to be honored unless one of us stepped forward and said otherwise. For me, it was an easy decision. Throughout my life I’d been raised to expect my father to die, and I counted every moment with him as a blessing for all of my 31 years. In anticipation of the death I was always prepared for, having prayed to God for years to “give him peace”–I never prayed for him to live or die, only to have peace from the constant pain he endured–I answered in the way I knew my father would want me to, though to do so caused me more pain than any I’d ever experienced before. I only said, “Let him go.” And no one else said a word. He was gone less than a quarter of an hour later.

He was the lead singer in a band on the fast track before the accident. His father, my grandfather, Ralph Mitchell, was a studio guitarist for Hank Williams, so my dad had a boatload of talent and a winning personality (sadly, the music ends with my father. My family’s musical genes didn’t see fit to pass on to me). The band was called the Barons and they were awarded a recording contract by winning the South Eastern Battle of the Bands in nineteen sixty something. I still have one of their records, a song called “Show Me” recorded on authentic vinyl .45. It’s hard to imagine the man lying in that bed having that voice. He tried to sing for me sometimes, when I would ask him to, but his body was failing and his voice was long gone even when I was a youngster. Sometimes I wonder what life would’ve been like if the accident hadn’t happened, if he hadn’t gotten into that car that night, and if the driver hadn’t gone on a drunken flight from the police and hit that tree. The driver’s name was Lonnie, he was the lead guitarist in the band. He, as well as the guy in the passenger seat that night, Ben Spradley, never got over it. I suppose they faulted themselves for taking my dad away from the world, but I know for a fact that my dad never faulted them and considered them friends, if not brothers, and wished they would visit him more. I suspect those two are still searching for penance, and I hope they find it.

My dad was constantly in and out of hospitals, so when I got the call that evening that he’d been in the hospital for two days I wasn’t surprised. The family often wouldn’t contact people, because usually his visits were for pain or bed sores or the rotting elbow he had that wouldn’t heal. So when they called this time to tell me he was back in I said I’d be there as soon as I could, likely in the morning–I was on my way home from watching “Unbreakable.” But the tone of their voice told me I should go right away, and right before I ended the call they said, “He’s waiting for you.” Little did I know at the time that he was waiting for me so he could see me one last time. I went, and less than an hour later he was gone. I’ll never forget his last words to me, or mine to him: with chalky, shivering lips, pale skin and tears in his eyes he said, “I love you son,” and I replied, “I love you, too, dad.” Then the medical staff made me leave and the doctor came to me with that dreadful question.

I lost all semblance of composure at the funeral. I fell apart. It would not have done him justice, and I’m sure he would have been disappointed to see me in that state, but … he was my dad, and that’s all I can say.

He was always a cheerful soul, right to the end, and he received many visitors because of it. He was good company, and uncommonly witty, if a sad soul, and I owe him a lot. It was because of him that I finally shrugged off a deep depression when I was younger, primarily because I visited him one day when I was sad and he was hurting that day and he said, “What’s wrong with you?” I just shook my head; I didn’t know. “Well, at least you’ve got two good legs,” he said, jokingly. How could I not smile? I have been sad since then, but I can’t say I’ve ever been depressed. Often when I called him on the phone and ask what he was doing he would reply, “I’ve been out jogging” with a laugh, but I really can’t describe the pleasantness of his being, the purity of his heart, or the joy people had in his company. His was a lonely soul all my life, and there was nothing anyone could do against that and live their own lives as well, and I think he understood that, which made him that much more wonderful to be in company with.

So when my uncle tells me that he was once the “coolest sumbitch on the planet” I believe him. He had his faults, sure, we all do, but he was fun-loving when life had robbed him of his manhood, his dignity, and almost of his soul. He persevered. He enjoyed what he could. He loved.

But more to the point of this article: Was Sammy Mitchell the coolest sumbitch on the planet? He was the lead singer of the Barons, as stated, a band on the fast track enjoying a modicum of success already. Everyone I’ve ever talked to who knew my father before the accident say much the same thing. They loved him, they adored him. He had groupies, followers. But as to what specifically made him the coolest sumbitch on the planet I have no idea and maybe I never will. Still, it was my Uncle Paul who said that, and knowing him, a man who doesn’t say things lightly, I guess I’ll just have to take his word for it.

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: Sammy Mitchell, the Barons