One hundred and two years ago on
April 9, 1924, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed baby boy entered the world in a place
named Waycross, Georgia. The second son of Mitchell and Reba Hopper who were
logging that an airport could be built. Mitchel from Perry County, Alabama and
Reba from Bibb County, Alabama traveled to Georgia with four small children and
expecting a fifth. That little boy born on April 9 is my dad, Mitchel Clark
Hopper.
There is a photograph of Mitchel
and Reba (Granny) standing beside a wagon loaded with one huge log pulled by
two long horned steers. Not long after dad’s birth one of the steers that
pulled the log wagon gored grandaddy Hopper rippling his stomach. This was the
1920’s and his injury was severe. Their logging endeavor ended and they moved
back to Perry County Alabama where grandad spent life as an invalid. Granny and
five children became sharecroppers in rural Alabama.
One morning as Uncle James, sixteen
years old, and dad, eleven years old, were digging post holes for a fence when
they heard a loud explosion inside the house they rented. As Uncle James and
dad entered the living room they saw blood, skin, and brain material dripping
from the ceiling. I have pictured that scene ever since I first heard dad tell it.
That was a horrific and terrifying moment for anyone, especially family.
The struggle of the Hopper family was
hard. Granny Hopper sharecropping with nine folks trying to make a living. I
written this before- dad said they were so poor that when they slaughtered hogs
all they threw away was the squeal. Every part of the hog was used. I know I
used to help Granny Hopper sling chitterlings (clean hog intestines).
Hard years passed quickly, Uncle
James was drafted and fought in WWII witnessing the horror and gore of combat.
When dad turned eighteen on April 9, 1942, the next week he went for basic
training and eventually North Africa to serve under General George C. Patton.
As the Allies moved north, dad went
to Italy. There he received two Purple Hearts. One was from a machine gun as bullets
ripped his stomach under his heart to his groin making a large S which called
dad superman. He lay in a foxhole bleeding as German soldiers using bayonets
made sure that soldiers were dead. Dad used two dead soldiers in the foxhole to
shield him from the bayonets. He felt the bayonet penetrate one soldier as the
second penetrated to other one. When the German soldiers queried about dad
being dead or not one said he was and they moved to another foxhole. Dad knew
enough German to understand God spared him.
The second Purple Heart was for shrapnel
from a grenade riddling his body. One piece of shrapnel lodged at the base of
his skull near the spinal cord in operatable. You could feel the knot.
While in Italy, the German Army
captured dad. Dad and several other men were loaded and carried to hill to be
killed. Realizing that they were about to be executed, dad and a few other
country boys decided to make break and run. Dad said everyone ran in different
directions. He said the bullets buzzed by him like angry bumble bees. Escaping
and an old Italian farmer hid him in a hay barn for three months. His was
listed as missing in action.
Dad shared many war stories. They
were humorous and very few were about the horror and gore. I would ask how many
enemy he killed and he would say, “We were following orders and so were they.
We just shot at one another.”
On dad’s 102nd birthday
I thought about things he taught me. I was the first born and was training
ground and learning curve for dad. I realized from a young age that dad lived
his life without a dad. He spoke of grandad often. That was one of my biggest
reasons for wanting to spend time with dad.
Every time he went somewhere
besides work, I wanted go. One time I was anxious that when he said I could go I
slammed the front door of the house on the fingers of my right hand. When I
yanked them from the door I pulled the fingernail from my middle finger. It bled
and throbbed for hours, but I was with dad. I was worth the pain. As a little
boy I wanted to cry. I wanted dad to be proud I was though, stupid but tough.
I wanted to be big and strong like
dad. He had large hands that carried many scars. He was respected for his size
and strength. Most men feared dad because of his background powerful demeanor.
Kids loved the gentle giant, and women were attracted to him.
In nineteen eighty-two doctors diagnosed
dad with brain tumors. One, the size of a lemon, was in the frontal of his
brain. The other was a pea sized near the pituitary gland near his brain stem.
Surgeons were able to remove ninety percent of the lemon sized tumor but could
not operate on the pea sized one.
Prognosis was that dad would lose
his memory, lose his eyesight, and lose his balance making him unable to walk.
As people and churches prayed doctors performed saying that God aided them.
After the surgery and during recovery, dad got cold and got out of bed moving
it away from the air-conditioner. Nurses panicked. Not too bad for some with no
memory, no balance, and no sight. Nurses thought him delirious. He told them he
was cold.
Dad was bald before surgery. One
day after chemo treatment, my daughter used his head for tic tac do. Dad did
well for two years. During that time, he and I would go walking and sharing
life. One time at a church cleanup, dad and I headed home. He said, “Son I used
to wish I did not have to go to work. Now I wish I could.”
Not long before his passing one
morning I went to eat breakfast with mom and dad. Mom said to dad, “Tell Bobby
about your dream. He will understand.” Fearing being called stupid or made fun
of dad was reluctant to share the dream with me. I said you can share it with
me.
Dad said, Last night I dreamed I
died and I was going toward a bright light in heaven. As I got closer, I saw
Jesus with His arms open. As I got close, He was waving motioning me back tell
me it was not time yet. And then I woke up.”
I told him that I believed him and that
others had similar testimonies. He smiled and said thanks son.
Dad turned sixty on April 9, 1984,
and died eighteen days later on April 27. I held that big old right hand as he
took his last breath.
Thank You God for allowing me to spend thirty-one years with dad. I think of him daily. I think of him when I see my brother David who looks like him and my brother Glenn who acts like him. I think of him and how he struggled in life. From age eleven, serving in WWII, and thousands of other things that dad experienced remind me of dad, Mitchel Clark Hopper Jr. known best as JM (Junior Mitchel)
Honour thy father and thy mother:
that thy days may be long upon the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee.
Exodus 20:12 KJV
Here is picture of dad holding me on one of his logging horses. Dad was 6' 3" standing behind "Jabo". Picture taken @ 1954.
