Ole Smokey
When my dad, Harry Pankey, was dying of a fatal kidney disease, I was a junior in high school; but as young as I was, I still learned a great lesson. I remember him saying of himself before he died that, "Harry Pankey is doing fine, but the castle that he resided in is falling apart." The years of being an athlete himself, raising three sons, and celebrating life through a bottle had finally taken their toll. Even in the morning hours before his death, my dad told me that he was doing fine.
At my father's funeral, it seemed that the entire town of Carbondale showed up. Other people in our community knew what life meant to my father, and they expressed their appreciation for what he taught them by paying him a last visit.
When I was a boy, our family lived downtown in the middle of Carbondale. There was an alley in back of our house, paved with gravel rock from one side to the other. Once a week the "ragman" would come through the alley with his old wooden cart being pulled by the ugliest white horse I've ever seen. The ragman was named Smokey, and he would cart away your trash free of charge, so long as you let him keep any of the good stuff that he saw value in.
My father, Harry, was a salesman for the Sexton Food Co., which was a primary supplier to restaurants and cafeterias in Southern Illinois. After his week-long journeys to Pinkneyville, Sparta, and other small Midwestern towns, he would have a bunch of food samples left over. He seldom kept them for the family but gave them to old Smokey. Through the years, Dad and old Smokey became very close. Dad would hear that old horse of Smokey's walking up the alley, and he would run out to the car, pull out his samples, and hand them over to him. Smokey was as broken as his old horse; years of hauling had taken their toll on both of them. Smokey had no teeth and skin as black as ebony. His white hair was thin and the sun would reflect off his forehead. As broken down as he seemed, he still outlived Harry Pankey.
The day my dad passed away, I was in English class, and the school’s athletic director, Mr. Reid Martin, came by and told me and my brother that we were needed at home. I remember asking what was wrong, but all Mr. Martin could say was to be strong and hurry home.
That night I was to play in the Sectional Basketball Tournament at the Southern Illinois University Arena. I was the forward on the team during my junior year. We had a great squad and had a shot at going to the State Finals if we could remain unbeaten during the Sectional Tournament. That day, everyone kept telling me to be strong and that Dad would have wanted me to play even though he couldn't be there.
So, I played that night, and during the pregame introductions, everyone was silent when I was introduced. At the tipoff, a pass was thrown to me, and I broke down the side of the court. I looked up at the rim as I reached the corner, 30 feet away, and thought to myself, "This one's for you, Harry." I let it fly, then slipped out of bounds, and went to the floor. I looked up, and caught a glimpse of the ball as it went through the rim and caught nothing but net, the best looking shot I had ever had. As I rose from the floor and ran toward the other side of the court, I noticed that the people in the stands were on their feet cheering me on. Even the opposing side was up and clapping.
It is said that most people are lucky if they experience 15 minutes of glory; well, I guess, that was, at least my 15 seconds of glory. There weren't many things that I accomplished in sports that compared well with that shot in honor of my dad.
I looked up to where my dad would have been standing in the arena, second level north end zone with Bill Gasaway, and there stood all of my dad's closest friends, waving their arms overhead in support. Of course, my two brothers and mom were at the funeral home by my dad’s side. My emotions at the moment were almost overwhelming. I felt like crying, but Dad had always told me to be strong, so I bowed my head and ran down court to play defense, continuing as if my father's death was just another obstacle that I had to overcome. I had my best game of the season that night, and we beat the hell out of our opponents, the Centralia Orphans.
The next day we buried my dad, and before the service, a lot of people came by, shook my hand, and said things like, "Good game last night, Bobby...that took a lot of courage...I'm sorry about your dad...be strong and you'll be all right." The minister at the funeral home told us that all things have a purpose. For the longest time, I sat in the front of the funeral parlor trying to accept the advice everyone had given me and denying what my true thoughts were at that moment while looking at the casket where my dad was lying.
Everyone was telling Mom, my brothers, and me that it was a blessing that Harry was with God now because he had suffered so during his illness. All these wise men of the clergy and all of Dad’s friends seemed to be saying what is usually said at funerals, but their words didn't seem to give me much comfort.
Then, to everyone's surprise, in walked a broken down old man wearing a three-piece tarnished brown suit and tie. It was Smokey, holding his chin up, limping over to my family and me. He reached my mother first and took her hand without saying a word. He just looked deeply into her eyes, expressionless. Mom thanked him for coming, and he nodded. He walked over to me with tears in his eyes, put his hands on my shoulders, and without saying a word, he embraced me. At that moment it became clear that Smokey understood what I was going through. It was evident that Smokey was going to miss my dad also. This old man who didn’t say a word had given me more comfort and understanding than anyone else in that funeral home that day.
It was as though Smokey had given me permission to feel sorrow, fear, and anger because I wouldn't ever be able to see Dad after the games or shake his hand anymore or sit on the couch with him watching the Packers or Cardinals win a game on a Sunday afternoon or have a beer with him in celebration. As Smokey held onto me, it was as if he was trying to tell me that it was okay for me to be sad, and it was okay for me to cry, and that it was alright for me to be angry over the fact that Dad wasn't going to be with me anymore.
I never saw Smokey again and never heard if he was still in the "ragman" business, but I'll always remember how good a man he was and how he loved my dad enough to help his son accept what a tragic thing it is to lose someone who means so much.
The gathering at the funeral of friends who loved and respected my father was a source of comfort and pride to all members of my family. However, I felt that Smokey’s presence was a special gift for me.
Being strong will only take you halfway home; accepting that your pain is worthy will help carry you the remainder of the way. Like most things in life, we get better in little measures each day. Today, I celebrate the life of Harry Pankey. Harry Pankey is doing fine.
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering,
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.”
William Wordsworth
enough
