Those of us old enough to remember World War II will recall the days of anxiety our families went through waiting to hear from loved ones on the battlefield and anticipating their safe return home. The following is an incident related by my mother (and of which I have some memory) that took place in the summer of 1945, the summer the war ended. It has to do with the grave concerns my maternal grandparents had for one of their sons—my uncle Frank—who was in the war and who had not been heard from in sometime.
Our immediate family was living in Panama City,Florida where my father worked in the Wainwright Shipyard. My mother was worried about her brother. She took my sister and me with her on the Coastal Stage, a local bus-line that served the Gulf coastal areas of Florida and Alabama, back to our hometown of DeFuniak Springs. From there we got a ride with a neighbor of my grandparents who worked in town to the remote area of northern Walton County, Florida where my grandparents lived on a rented farm. I do not recall how many days we stayed with them, but one day, according to mother, after dinner (the noon meal) we were all out on the front porch when we heard a car coming up the dirt road to the house. We knew somebody was coming but we did not know who. A taxi drove up into the outer part of the yard and a young man still in his twenties and dressed in a military uniform emerged from the back seat of the cab. My mother and grandfather (Big-daddy) bounded from the porch and almost knocked each other down as they both tried to get through the small gate in the fence that separated the small dirt yard around the house from the larger yard outside the fence. "It's Frank," they cried. What hugging, what crying, what joy we all experienced that day at Frank's safe return home. My grandmother (Big-mama) pulled back the table cloth from over the food that had been left on the dinner table, and I am sure that a big fresh pot of strong coffee (the only kind Big-daddy ever drank) was made on the old wood-burning cook stove. There was no killing of a fatted calf, but there was every bit as much rejoicing over the safe return of Frank as there had been when the prodigal son came home.
This is the 67th summer since that event took place, but some of its scenes are still etched in my memory. My grandparents have now been dead for many years. My grandfather died two weeks to the day after my wife and I were married in 1957. My grandmother lived on until 1982, dying at the age of 89. My mother lived until the age of 93, dying in 2008. Frank was discharged from the military inTexas and lived in Texas for the rest of his life. His life was not always an easy one. In the late 1980s, when Jan and I lived in Dallas, we took a trip to San Antonio for a few days of R & R. On our return home, we pulled off I-35 at the little town of Cibolowhere I had learned Frank was living. I stopped at a service station/garage (the garage was no longer in operation) and asked the man at the front if he knew Frank Pope and where he might live. He said, "If you'll step back into the garage you'll find him back there with several other fellows." I walked back into the rear part of the building and saw a circle of older men visiting with one another. I looked the group over and spotted the one I was looking for, though it had been many, many years since I had seen him. I said, "I'm looking for that fellow right there," and pointed to Frank. He did not know who I was. I said, "Let's step outside a moment." He got up from his chair and followed me outside. When I told him who I was he was utterly dumbfounded and broke down, sobbing. I'm sure I cried too as we embraced. I took him to the car and introduced him to my wife. We talked and reminisced for a good little while. That was the last time I saw him. He passed away in 1995 shortly after I moved to Selma. His daughter called me from San Antonio to tell me of his death and to ask if I could come and serve as a pallbearer. Unfortunately, I was unable to do so. At one point in his life Frank confessed his faith in Christ and was baptized into Him. But over the years his life took many twists and turns. However, I know that at least on one occasion he experienced a happy homecoming at a remote farm house in Walton County, Florida.
Speaking Schedule:
August 19: Cottontown Church of Christ, Cottontown, TN (all services)
Hugh Fulford
August 14, 2012
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