A Trumpet Tribute to All Fathers
“This Is My Dad”
By Dr. J. Ester Davis
My third promotion in corporate America put me in national accounts Business Systems Division.
By 2:00 PM on a Friday afternoon in an eastern city my colleagues and I knew we were in trouble.
We were going to have to work another weekend away from home. We worked all day Saturday. Sunday morning I found a church in the area. Out of habit I signed the visitor’s card and placed Conroe as my “hometown”.
The church recommended by a black employee at the hotel was quite historic, reminisce of Philadelphia’s classic architectural deco. Standing as a visitor, and after the announcer finished with her welcome, the Pastor asked for the visitor from Conroe to stand. I stood quietly. The pastor started this story and asked me to come down front. I remember an usher coming with outstretched hand and I followed her. The Pastor in his slow deliberate drawl was explaining his days at Conroe College. Now, I am totally comfortable. He went on with his story of needing money, being away from home, and he went to work for “this black man and his brothers hauling wood.” His voice changed when he said . . . “and they owned the trucks”. Finally after his story of his days at Conroe College, he asked if I would like to say something. At this moment, I was only thinking about my Dad and hearing his voice in my head telling us he knew ministers all over America. As a Baptist girl, I knew proper protocol. “That was my Dad” I said directly after my opening greeting.
Conroe, Texas, is home to two(2)black colleges, built years after the Civil War. Conroe Normal & Industrial College, 1903, located on 10th Street down the street from my Uncle WS’ house and Royal College, 1927, up the hill from my grandparents farm on Royal College Hill. I passed this college all of my formative years going to and from ‘Big Mama’ house. Royal College was nestled in the middle of small black farms and ranches outside of Conroe. In 1913, Conroe College had a five story building destroyed by fire. As you can imagine so much was speculated about this fire and this era of progress.
My Dad, Deacon James Saddler, born in 1914, (six brothers, five sisters) owned pulp wood trucks and truck parts all of my life. Daddy gave us on-the-job-training. I wrote my first receipt at 12 years old. My parents were married 55 years before my Mother changed addresses. Daddy was a good provider and my Mom good at everything else. My childhood was filled with lots of rules, space, love and attention, a brother, two sisters, cousins in the area, cats, dogs, baby chicks every Spring and a playhouse in the backyard. We never moved from the house my grandfather built when I was three years old.
My Dad loved Texas because he said it was rich with timber. He cleared a lot of “Texas Timber” around what is now ‘The Woodlands’ east and west across Texas. He also had access to lots of eager labor with two colleges full of young black ministers. To this day with all of the stories about those days, I marvel at the courage, grit and faith of my Dad. Years before Daddy changed addresses, we celebrated “James Saddler Day” with proclamations and visitors from several counties. I was grown before I learned of the
Steadfast prayer group that prayed for him to come home every night.
Let’s celebrate Fathers and write about the precious memories.
