| Biographical Non-Fiction posted June 18, 2022 |
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Gilvin C. Broxson
Happy Father's Day
by Terry Broxson
Gilvin Cooper Broxson (1919-1992)
The first time I was called Mr. Broxson, I had to look around for my father. He was the real Mr. Broxson, not me. I am guessing a lot of folks can remember the first time they had a similar experience. Eventually, I inherited that role. I was proud to do so.
My dad was born in 1919. He weighed a pound and a half. He was three months premature, not expected to live. He was named Gilvin Cooper Broxson. His friends called him Gil. Here are a few windows into his life.
I think he was a renaissance man. What do I mean by that? That is someone who can adapt to new interests and changes that affect their lives. For example, who learns how to send and receive Morse code at age forty? Who buys one of the first IBM personal computers at age sixty-five when IBM does not know what people will do with it?
My dad.
My dad was unemployed when I was born. When I first remember knowing him, my father was a life insurance salesman. I know we started as a financially low-income family. But our family was happy middle class when I made it to high school. We had vacations. We had a color TV. I had a red Schwinn bicycle. I could not think of a dang thing I needed.
On his fortieth birthday, my mother made him a cake and decorated it with, "Life begins at 40!" He announced to our little family, "Life does begin at forty, and I am going to do a couple of new things. First, I am opening the Broxson and Bartley Insurance Agency. Jerry Bartley is my best friend and new partner.
"Second, I am going to become an amateur radio operator (ham radio). To do that, I have to study a lot of new stuff and learn to send and receive Morse code."
He was right; he did both. His independent insurance agency did well. He became WA5FDL, a licensed amateur radio operator. Ham radio operators use words to spell out their call letters to help avoid confusion. My father used whiskey able five fat, dumb, and lazy. When he was drinking Jim Beam, it was whiskey able five fast, dangerous lover!
Early morning Friday, June 11, 1965, my dad was listening to his radio when he heard a call for help. It was a ham radio operator in Sanderson, Texas. Sanderson is a small town located in the Big Bend area of Texas.
The radio man said, "We need help; there has been a flash flood disaster, we have no power, and my battery is running down." The flash flood sent a fifteen-foot wall of water through the small community. Homes and businesses were destroyed, and twenty-eight people lost their lives.
My father called the DPS first to report the event. He then packed his portable equipment, drove to Sanderson, and set up a mobile communication system to relay news and information to anxious relatives. He did not sleep for forty-eight hours.
When the State and Federal Governments presented him with citations for his actions he simply replied, "That is what ham radio people do."
My brother-in-law was an executive with IBM. He was working on a task force trying to figure out how people would use these new personal computers. I told him, "My dad just bought one, and he is sixty-five. He wants to compile all the poems he has written. Right now, the poems are handwritten. He also wants information on his insurance clients so he can track them."
My brother-in-law said, "Well, that is interesting."
My father did compile his poems. I have posted a couple of his works in other stories. Here is the last poem he wrote. It seems fitting to me as I am now in the twilight of my life.
THE GOLDEN YEARS
Here I am at the Golden Age,
And since I have become a sage,
I feel I should write it down
With awesome words-- most profound
To tell of deeds by my own hand
So generations may understand,
Or, with frustration, scratch their head,
and wonder what it was I said.
They call these the "Twilight Years,"
So far away from the boos and cheers.
Experience and knowledge I have galore,
But no one listens anymore!
"How is your dad?" someone will say.
My son will answer, "He passed away."
So here is to The Golden Years,
A time of peace, too late for tears,
But still, as far as I can see,
It ain't what it's cracked up to be!
Gil Broxson 1986
Gilvin Cooper Broxson (1919-1992)
The first time I was called Mr. Broxson, I had to look around for my father. He was the real Mr. Broxson, not me. I am guessing a lot of folks can remember the first time they had a similar experience. Eventually, I inherited that role. I was proud to do so.
My dad was born in 1919. He weighed a pound and a half. He was three months premature, not expected to live. He was named Gilvin Cooper Broxson. His friends called him Gil. Here are a few windows into his life.
I think he was a renaissance man. What do I mean by that? That is someone who can adapt to new interests and changes that affect their lives. For example, who learns how to send and receive Morse code at age forty? Who buys one of the first IBM personal computers at age sixty-five when IBM does not know what people will do with it?
My dad.
My dad was unemployed when I was born. When I first remember knowing him, my father was a life insurance salesman. I know we started as a financially low-income family. But our family was happy middle class when I made it to high school. We had vacations. We had a color TV. I had a red Schwinn bicycle. I could not think of a dang thing I needed.
On his fortieth birthday, my mother made him a cake and decorated it with, "Life begins at 40!" He announced to our little family, "Life does begin at forty, and I am going to do a couple of new things. First, I am opening the Broxson and Bartley Insurance Agency. Jerry Bartley is my best friend and new partner.
"Second, I am going to become an amateur radio operator (ham radio). To do that, I have to study a lot of new stuff and learn to send and receive Morse code."
He was right; he did both. His independent insurance agency did well. He became WA5FDL, a licensed amateur radio operator. Ham radio operators use words to spell out their call letters to help avoid confusion. My father used whiskey able five fat, dumb, and lazy. When he was drinking Jim Beam, it was whiskey able five fast, dangerous lover!
Early morning Friday, June 11, 1965, my dad was listening to his radio when he heard a call for help. It was a ham radio operator in Sanderson, Texas. Sanderson is a small town located in the Big Bend area of Texas.
The radio man said, "We need help; there has been a flash flood disaster, we have no power, and my battery is running down." The flash flood sent a fifteen-foot wall of water through the small community. Homes and businesses were destroyed, and twenty-eight people lost their lives.
My father called the DPS first to report the event. He then packed his portable equipment, drove to Sanderson, and set up a mobile communication system to relay news and information to anxious relatives. He did not sleep for forty-eight hours.
When the State and Federal Governments presented him with citations for his actions he simply replied, "That is what ham radio people do."
My brother-in-law was an executive with IBM. He was working on a task force trying to figure out how people would use these new personal computers. I told him, "My dad just bought one, and he is sixty-five. He wants to compile all the poems he has written. Right now, the poems are handwritten. He also wants information on his insurance clients so he can track them."
My brother-in-law said, "Well, that is interesting."
My father did compile his poems. I have posted a couple of his works in other stories. Here is the last poem he wrote. It seems fitting to me as I am now in the twilight of my life.
THE GOLDEN YEARS
Here I am at the Golden Age,
And since I have become a sage,
I feel I should write it down
With awesome words-- most profound
To tell of deeds by my own hand
So generations may understand,
Or, with frustration, scratch their head,
and wonder what it was I said.
They call these the "Twilight Years,"
So far away from the boos and cheers.
Experience and knowledge I have galore,
But no one listens anymore!
"How is your dad?" someone will say.
My son will answer, "He passed away."
So here is to The Golden Years,
A time of peace, too late for tears,
But still, as far as I can see,
It ain't what it's cracked up to be!
Gil Broxson 1986
 Recognized |
#11 June 2022 |
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