The vibrant colors of October, sunshine in autumn that brings comfort compared to the heat of the prior months, and cooler air that strides in with a changing season usually brings a cozy feeling as shorter days and soup season is upon us. A beautiful autumn day is not the scene you expect when you lose your father, yet here I am. It’s my favorite season and I always thought it was because of my own birthday falling in October or perhaps I enjoyed the slower days that came with the shorter daylight. Now I realize it’s because I’ve always pictured my dad as autumn. I know that sounds strange, but hear me out. His fiery reddish-orange hair and even brighter beard that he only grew during hunting season reminded me of the red and orange trees on the mountainside. His standard flannel that smelled of the outdoors he wore each morning as he headed into work reminded me of the cooler temperatures that come in the fall. Or maybe it’s because one of his happy places hunting in the woods only came during the fall months. Autumn brings me peace…so did my dad. Maybe he had to go in October because he forever belonged among the autumn leaves.
Born in 1953, John Edward Shamblin came into the world as the third son to James Donald “Don” and Willadeen, eventually to become an older brother to my grandparent’s fourth and final son. Somehow even with a stature of 6’1″ (or if you asked him 6′ 3/4″) he was the “runt” of the family. Our family doesn’t produce anyone tiny. He was the spitting image of his grandpa Bobcat Jones and was the only one with his signature red hair. He grew up just as you would expect a boy surrounded by brothers in the 50s and 60s…full of mischief and orneriness. Along with his distinct red hair he carried a quietness about him that intimidated many. My dad didn’t feel it necessary to insert an opinion just because he had one. However, when he spoke you certainly listened because what he had to say carried weight and was beneficial. He didn’t need to let everyone know he was there…they just knew. He had what the boys referred to as “aura”. So how does life feel so quiet now that our quiet giant has gone?
Growing up we spent a lot of time with him outside doing typical WV mountain kid things. Hunting, which was short lived for me in particular because I made too much noise and preferred cereal with Saturday morning cartoons over layered clothing and sneaking through crunchy leaves. Fishing that I loved for many years and was pretty good at, even if he had to get the fish off the hook for me most of the time. He didn’t let me wimp out and bait the hook for me though. Worm guts are still not my friend. However, most of the time we were on a ball field. I remember the day he convinced me to sign up for t-ball and I finally agreed because my neighbor best friend was playing. I ended up on a team with mostly boys and somehow became a natural on the field. One of his favorite stories to tell was how he’d never seen anyone make a triple play on their own until I did it. That was just the beginning of the stories he could tell about our adventures in softball. He wasn’t always the coach for my team, but he was always there. He started me as a pitcher by having me “pitch” rocks into the creek at New Hope while we watched baseball games. When I took the mound, he stood by the fence and called my pitches. In the state tournament the umpire congratulated him on my perfect game and said “you called a great game dad”. I was as proud of that as he was of me. We spent several years traveling all over to play with the culmination at the Big League World Series my last year of “little league”. I sped off to college the day after we returned from traveling all of that summer for softball to join my college team and begin adventures where he couldn’t make each game and didn’t coach, but he was there at as many as he could with my mom right alongside. My teammates all along the way loved my dad. He was easy to love, but he treated them all with the same regard. It didn’t matter to him if you were an ace on the mound or you preferred dance to sports. If you were on his team and you wanted to learn, he taught you. He would hold sliding practice for those who were afraid and he’d show them how to do it, right in his work jeans. You see my dad didn’t put himself first. He came straight from a long day of construction work still in boots and jeans to drag the field and get it ready for us to have the best field for practice or games. He took his role seriously to not just coach us in the game, but to raise us as strong young women who deserved just as much as the boys, but oftentimes didn’t receive it. He stood up for women’s’ rights before it was a trend and without labeling it as such. He just stood for what was right.
I could write a series of novels on my dad…the memories, the adventures, his own history, and the life he created with our little family. The day he became a grandfather though was when I saw a shift in the man who raised me. He instilled into his grandkids much of the same wisdom he gave to us, but in a much softer way. You see he was a Shamblin so that meant he was firm in how he raised us and his expectations he set for us as his children. Apparently grandkids change a person and even the toughest men will bend to the will of a granddaughter or grandson. Watching it in real time I was never sure if I should be offended that my sons were getting away with things I was terrified to try or impressed at the power they had to change that man. I was certainly in awe. If you’d ask my sons, that man hung the moon. Not a far stretch from my belief growing up, just dressed up with more candy and far fewer “nos”. Trips to KFC were a staple for Carter and his Pop. Detailed conversations about football and play logistics. Everything far above my pay grade. His conversations with Callahan about baseball and “dad jokes” were a regular occurrence. Then came Crew. I’m convinced my mom has always been my dad’s best friend, but Crew was very close to rooting her out of the role of “bestie”. Those two were peas in a pod, thick as thieves, and equally rotten. I was told too many times to count “I’ll just ask Pop” when I told that boy no. I know the gift I was given that my boys had so much time with a man of that value and I know how much of a void he’s already left for each one.
I wore his name for 26 years, but carry half of him within me forever. I see his eyes when I look in the mirror and am reminded I have his long limbs when I put on a shirt and it’s too short in the arms. My love for photography and ability to take a good photo comes from him. I spent a lot of time browsing through his photo albums he created, each one curated, labeled, and in chronological order, making an impression on me that one day, all my pictures whether formal or candid, must make you feel something. His did. My brother and sister were blessed with his fair complexion and red hair, so I don’t need to look far to find him here with us still. I wear his facial expressions which I know is referred to as RBF. I’m not ashamed of that. I gave my three sons a part of him the day each one was born. They don’t carry the same name, but his blood runs through their veins. They carry some of his personality traits, facial expressions, and mentality. The last one you can argue nature versus nurture, but it wouldn’t matter because he had a strong hand in so much of their upbringing. I’m thankful for the influence he had on each one of them and you can tell it meant the world to them because they speak of him with pride in their eyes. They got their left-handedness from him…it definitely wasn’t a direct trait from me. He lives on through us even if it’s hard imagining living without him.
My faith tells me I will see my dad again one day, fully restored, and without tears. Some have questioned my dad and his own faith. As I said, the man was quiet. He wasn’t loud about what he believed, but his heart spoke it and we each knew. My dad didn’t yell from the front pew that he loved God…he lived it. He lived his life for his family and those who were in his life. A heart designed to serve and protect, but rather than a badge made of brass, he wore his as a badge of honor because he considered it not only his purpose in life, but an honor to care for each one of us. And what an honor to have been on the receiving end.
Right now the world feels a little quieter, the path a little lonelier, and the view a little less vibrant. Perhaps it always will. Or perhaps I’ll find him in more places around me…the new bright red cardinal living in my tree, the touchdown pass Carter throws for his Pop, the strikeout using the pitch Pop taught Callahan, or the smell of wintergreen that Crew says smells like him. I’ll never stop telling his stories. I’ll never stop remembering his face, nor his voice. I’ll see the ball field lights and think of him and I’ll remember him when I see an old Chevy pickup. I’ll see him when I see someone in Red Wing work boots or a Cleveland Browns shirt. It’s been said that perhaps what it means to be a father – to teach your child to live without you (Nicole Krauss)…and perhaps that’s just what he did, whether I wanted to or not. But while I’m living without him, I’m going to keep living for him, honor him, remember him. So to my daddy, thank you for just being you…I love you bigger than the sky, which is the color of your eyes, and I’ll be seeing you…
