Apr24

Paddy Wagon

By Bill 13 comments

Eight years ago at just about 4:15 in the afternoon, Patrick, our middle son, then 19, was killed in an automobile accident on I-20 just west of Atlanta in Douglasville, Georgia. He’d offered to drive after a concert so his two friends could sleep in the back of the Ford Explorer. But he fell asleep as well, the car rolled and it was over for him. The two kids in the back survived but he wasn’t so lucky. When Jim and I created this site we said we would write about almost anything, including food. I’ve been urged from time to time over the last eight years to write about what’s it’s like to lose a child. But I’ve never wanted to, because, frankly I was afraid; fearful of calling up good memories of Paddy Wagon only to be reminded that there would never be any others. I’m still scared but I am going to finally try, almost at exactly the same time of day that the Georgia State trouper called the house and gave the news to Michael, the youngest, mistaking a fourteen year old with a deep voice for an adult, that a Patrick Hamby had been killed in an accident.

paddy I walk every day for about forty-five minutes, the extent of my physical training. After a rain, as today, there are invariably puddles in the street that other walkers passing carefully skirt as most people would. I never do. I splash right through them and occasionally cross over to the opposing side of the street just to make sure I don’t miss one. Yeah, I get my shoes and socks wet but I do it in memory and for Patrick, who as neighbor in Washington once observed after watching him as a little boy playing on the sidewalk, “Look at him. All those other kids walk around the puddles and he goes out of his way to run right through it!” That speaks to the playfulness that was so much a part of his personality; and when I get wound up in some grownup , real life situation, I think of him and the rain puddles and I go looking for one to clomp through to remember what’s important, to stay connected to him. I love the sunshine, but I know at least when it rains there’s something to look forward to on my walk.

And if you’re a parent, you know that your children are always watching and listening. At times you wish you had been aware of that because you never know when they’ll remind you of something you said or did. Or you wish they’d finally learn a lesson you’ve been drilling them with since they were small. Well, when the boys were young and we’d pass a street musician playing for coins, good or dreadful, I always told Peter, Patrick and Michael to never pass by without tossing something, even a nickle, into the hat or open guitar case. My lesson was simple. They aren’t beggars, woeful as they might sound, at least they are trying. Years later at the funeral home, as friends, family and kids from Appalachian State filed past us to offer their condolences, a friend of Patrick’s I’d never met squared up in front of me and said, “You know Mr. Hamby, Pat always told us to never pass a street musician without giving them something. I always do it now.” Later another said the same thing. Maybe a small moment, but I realized I’d passed on something that he passed on. He had taken my advice. He had been listening. So now when I toss a coin into the hat, he’s throwing something in with me. Like the rain puddles, Patrick is by my side.

About a year after his death I found myself in a park in Portland, Oregon, smoking a cigar, killing time before going to the airport. Ten yards away, a guy sat down on a bench and unpacked a trumpet and set up a music stand. The fact he had a beanie hat on with a propeller only enhanced the scene and held out the promise for something special. Of course I was remembering Patrick and of course I would drop something in his case before I left. And then he started playing. He was god awful. But there was something endearing about his effort, his earnestness alone was entertaining. Pat would have loved it. Needless to say, but the few people who passed his way neglected to ante up; indeed some strollers purposefully vectored away from the caterwauling. His horn case held nary a penny. And when it was time for me to leave I pulled a ten dollar bill out of my pocket and wrote, Thanks. Patrick Hamby. I don’t know if it made his day or not, but it brightened mine.

Patrick was learning to be a pretty good cook. He had aspirations to attend cooking school because after a semester at Happy Appy, while he enjoyed his friends, he wasn’t happy with college and college wasn’t happy with him. The last time I heard his voice was a week or so before his accident. He called me while he was preparing dinner for his apartment mates in Boone, North Carolina, and he was irritated becuse his buddies were smoking in the kitchen while he was cooking. He said, “Da, what do I tell these guys?” I said, “Pat, tell them they are disrespecting the food and the chef as well.” I was trying to help out, pass something along, like the importance of grating fresh nutmeg into creamed spinach, a dish I taught him how to prepare, and one he loved. He just thought it was a neat thing to know about. And every damn time I pull that grater out from the spice cabinet I think of that special boy I miss so much. But I know he’s right there with me.

There. I’ve finally written something. Maybe I’ll do it again. Lucky are the ones who knew him. I wish you all had.

Comments (13)

Larry

Good work. Love from your brother. [Reply]
Daimon

There are rare moments when words move one so much that their viewpoint changes and they are forced to reflect on their own situation. Thank you Bill for taking a leap of faith and writing about your son. I’m sure he is smiling down on you. [Reply]
Jan

I’ll never pass a street musician again without honoring your boy. [Reply]
Linda deCastrique

Beautiful, Brother Hamby. God Bless. xoLinda [Reply]
Peggy LeVino Alexander

To puddles, street musicians, and creamed spinach. Well done, Bill Hamby. [Reply]
lois biddison

Bill, This is beautiful. Lois [Reply]
RG

I was one of those lucky to know Patrick, and he was a fine young man. I know those who made him so. Wish I had a different reason for tears today. [Reply]
Gevelrenovatie

Hi, I just found this website, it’s very beautiful! [Reply]
Mary Fran

What an impact Patrick left on so many of us! xoxox [Reply]
chris

I enjoyed reading about Patrick. It makes him seem near. thank you for this. [Reply]
Jeanne Oostdyk

Guys, just reading this now for the first time..I should visit your site much more often! Bill, this is beautiful and brave. I didn’t know about your son Patrick….seems like I should have after sharing the wonderful evening the Comfort Bros. provided for our dinner back in Feb. Took alot to do this.. thanks! [Reply]
Susan ludeman

Bill, your memories and thoughts have moved me. I will seek the puddles and think of you with a smile! [Reply]
Jaybird

Bill, My takeaway from your inspirational writing is that we never know the story behind the people that we come into contact with. Up to this point, you were my good friend Jim’s Comfort Brothers cooking partner. You still are but I now know that you are also grappling with maybe the most difficult circumstance I can think of. My thoughts go out to you and yours and no doubt Patrick is with you in many walks of life. [Reply]