Kingsport Spirit

In 1976, when he was 34 years old, Bob Moore married Carol Salyer and gained a 6-year-old son, Timothy.

To put things in perspective, Bob would have been about the same age as his grandsons Zack Fleming and Zachary Salyer are now.

Just 6 years and 9 months into their marriage, Bob & Timothy lost Carol to breast cancer.

Tragically by the age of 13, Timothy had lost both of his biological parents.

But he had Bob. And what a pair they were.  

From 13-19, Bob raised Timothy as a single dad. He taught him how to farm, and about life, made sure he got to school and turned in his homework, fed him, clothed him, and did all the little daily things a parent does for a child. He stayed by Timothy’s side and got him grounded to start his own life as a husband and father.

Then at age 47, Bob married Dorothy Kilgore, who lost her husband too soon, and he gained 3 daughters.

I’m reminded of the song, “The Man He Didn’t Have To Be”.

If you’re not familiar with the lyrics, they say…

I met the man I call my dad when I was five years old

And then, all of a sudden, it seemed so strange to me

How we went from something’s missing to a family

Looking back, all I can say about all the things he did for me

Is, I hope I’m at least half the dad that he didn’t have to be

Bob wasn’t a man of many words. He wasn’t one to say “I love you”, although he did in his later years.

He wasn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve.

In talking to Timothy, he said, “He was just always there. For any reason you needed him, he was there.”

He gave the gift of time…of presence.

How all kids long for a strong father figure in their lives that puts them on a pedestal, prioritizes their needs, and makes sure they’re met.

He doted on his kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids. If he thought their parents were being too tough, he’d plead their case and seek a softer sentence.

When I met Bob, my hair was brown and I was just starting my career. Now I’ve been retired for 5 years myself.

For 36 years we shared life’s highs and lows.  We were about as opposite as they come, but we bonded nonetheless.

He was a farmer. I was not.

He worked outdoors. I worked indoors.

He did hard work with his hands. I used a keyboard.

I loved sports. He did not.

He spent his life within a few miles of his homeplace on Grassy Creek and almost always had to be back at the farm in time to feed the cows. I didn’t understand why it was so hard for him to take a few days off.   

We loved to go on Sunday drives. You never knew where we’d end up. Spontaneous, unplanned. It might be Bear Wallow, High Knob, my family’s roots in Clintwood, or Dottie’s in Kentucky, or it might be Cumberland Gap.

And on the rare occasion that he could get away for more than a day, we made the most of it.

We went on big adventures to see faraway places.

One time we visited 7 states in one day. In a minivan nonetheless. He was a trooper.

All the while he was surveying the land for its farming potential. He was especially impressed with the wide fertile valleys of Pennsylvania Amish Country. After making a wrong turn and coming the back way to the cemetery the other day, I understand why. I think those cows’ legs must be two different lengths to stand up straight in the pastures I saw. There is some beautiful, but steep land in Russell County.

We visited our nation’s capital. We saw Philly on the 4^th of July.

And on those trips near and far, with me driving and him in the passenger seat, he would talk about his life growing up with a big, loving family. He talked about his mom and dad, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. Sometimes he’d get choked up and have to pause. He was so very proud of them all.

For as long as I knew Bob he suffered from diabetes and chronic back pain—ailments that would’ve stopped most anyone else from trying. But he didn’t have quit in him.

He powered through—with little to no pain medication. When the time came, he grabbed a cane, and when a cane no longer worked, he grabbed a walker. But he never stopped.

These past few years have been particularly difficult watching him decline. But he was always optimistic that he’d get better.

For three and half decades, he’d sit in his recliner in the middle of the family room every time we gathered.

The room revolved around him.

The family grew through marriages and births and he cherished every one.

As we’ve gathered at the house the past couple of days, I noticed we avoided that chair. It sits prominently in the middle of the room as if he’s just down the hall, coming back.  

When we gathered in the hospital room and the doctors and nurses would come in, they said, “It’s not every day you see a family stay by the bedside like this anymore. You can tell he is well-loved.”

Indeed, he is.

Rest well, Papaw, until we meet again.

And thank you for being the man you didn’t have to be.