The last time I ever saw my father before he was murdered, I drove my 1999 Buick Park Avenue from South Carolina to the mountains in Arkansas to visit. My then boyfriend and I left several hours earlier than we told my dad we would, just to surprise him, taking turns driving. I remember finally reaching the exit in Russellville and pulling into the old familiar gas station, just after daylight. I remember getting out of the passenger seat to stretch my legs and looking around, thinking how strange it was to be in Arkansas again. How less than 13 hours prior, we were in a different state, a different world. We topped off the gas tank, grabbed cigarettes, and used the bathroom then began our ascent up Scenic Highway 7 onto “the mountain”. A little over an hour later, I remember pulling through the green metal gate overlooking those mysterious mountains and seeing the giant tan metal building with green trim and 3 huge bay doors, one open. My dad built this metal building himself, 1500 square feet of it was the living quarters with raw cedar throughout, the other 3500 square feet his street rod fabrication shop; Chariots of Fire Street Rod Service. I pulled in and laid on the horn. Sure enough, in just a few seconds, here came my thin, tall, long-haired, Wrangler-wearing old man through the door and into the shop, wondering who in the hell would be blowing their horn in his driveway. The moment he realized it was me, his face shifted, he chuckled and smiled his close-lipped smile and I ran to meet him, as he pulled me close with one of his one arm hugs, and I wrapped both of mine around him. I would have never guessed that would be the last time I would be able to drive up to that shop with hope, instead of despair, instead of misery, instead of a thousand questions without answers.

My dad wanted me to go to college more than anything; I believe he wanted me to have the best shot at a different life than the one he had lived, and, in his mind, that equated to college. He knew I was academically gifted, and he wanted me to use it. His motivations weren’t selfish; it was his way of loving me, of pushing me in the direction that he knew was best, without an explanation for me. How do you explain to your beloved, innocent, and beautiful child that the family bloodline is hardwired for rebellion against authority, for struggle? For disaster and even tragedy? How does one explain that the family bloodline carries over a century of outlaw blood within them? No one wants to watch their baby grow up to live an outlaw life, which never ends well, usually only ends in jails, institutions, or death. 

I guess I got lucky… although it was 12 years after most Americans pursue a college education, I managed to do just that, all while being the single parent of a rambunctious 7-year-old son who is a spitting image of his grandfather, of myself. My dad’s fate turned out to be true to what most notorious outlaws would be… an unsolved murder mystery, still to this day. 

Thank you for pressuring me to go to college, Pops. This degree is in your honor. Love always, Your Babygirl, Sue

Published 31st March 2024.