MISSING POPS

You never met my dad, Richard Outzen, Sr., but you would've loved him if you had. And one of my biggest regrets is that he died too young for my children and grandchildren to get to know him.

Born in 1930, growing up in the Great Depression, watching World War II happen while caring for his mother in the Mississippi Delta, he had a bigger-than-life personality that not only commanded respect, but also made you love him.

His grandfather, John Aloysius Cannon, was once mayor of Greenville, Miss., during the historic flood of 1927. Most of his fortune had evaporated before my dad was born, and my dad's father died when he was a toddler. Though he had older brothers and sisters, Richard felt responsible for his mother.

Their relationship was close. When he went to first grade at St. Rosa Lima School, and the older boys picked on him, he ran home. His mother let him stay out of school for two years until the parish priest came to the house and convinced her Richard needed to be going to school.

Being a little bit older than his classmates gave him an edge and made him the natural leader of his class, which really isn't saying much because his class only had five students.

As Father's Day approaches, I face the reality of living in a world without my dad knowing I'm almost 45 years older than he was when he passed in 1980. I dwell on the stories my mother and his friends have shared about him, longing for that opportunity to have an adult conversation with him because there were too few. But I do love to repeat the stories.

Dad's natural comedic talent was noticed when he was in the U.S. Air Force during the Korean War and became part of the USO shows in the South Pacific. When his ship landed in San Diego after the war, an agent met him and tried to sign him into a contract, but Dad wanted to return home to care for his mother.

Dad grew up on the edge of the Black section of Greenville, and many of his childhood friends were Black. When he came back to

Greenville and developed his insurance business, he built much of it by selling them life, car and home policies. When statewide candidates visited the Mississippi Delta, Dad escorted them to the various Black churches because the pastors trusted him.

In the 1970s, he was asked to chair the American Heart Association's Heart Fund campaign. At the time, Greenville had two campaigns segregated by race. Dad agreed to do it, but only if there would be one fund, arguing he didn't know the difference between a Black and white heart. He rallied his friends from the white and Black neighborhoods and had the most successful campaign in the city's history. From that point, the community campaigns were no longer segregated.

Now Dad had his quirks.

He was a clothes horse who loved loud sport coats, gold Rolexes and white Buck shoes in the summer. No matter the combination, Dad convinced you he looked cool. When Bum Phillips took over as the head coach of the New Orleans Saints, Dad began wearing cowboy boots, western shirts and belts with big silver buckles. Thank goodness that fad only lasted one football season.

What I remember most is Dad's love for my mother, his six children and our friends. He coached all the Outzen boys in YMCA football and didn't worry about drafting the best players. Dad selected our friends and classmates, sprinkled with a few boys he knew had tough home lives. He rarely won championships, but the teams were fun.

He also stayed connected to many of his former players, sending them notes as they progressed through life and giving them hugs and words of encouragement whenever he saw them. He often picked up their meal and asked about their parents and jobs.

Dad had a way of making everyone feel better about themselves. He would needle the pretentious, but he made all of us more confident to take on challenges.

And more than just me misses him.

{in} rick@inweekly.net