Memories of My Dad

Warren David Martin, Sr.

August 13, 1928 - March 10, 2008

Today is August 13th, which would have been my father's 80th birthday.  Below are some memories of his life ... and mine ...

When I was young, my father was active in Boy Scout Troop 19, serving on the Scout Committee for many years.  One weekend the troop went camping at Bass Mountain, one of my favorite places to go.  It had a nice wooded area with a creek running through it, along with a huge field for playing a variety of games.  I used to always pitch my tent near a particular rock that hung over the creek, and had a pocket etched in it that was perfect for holding a bar of soap.  On this particular weekend we arrived to find the gate to our camping site was locked.  My father got out his toolbox, found a thin piece of metal, and began filing it to make a key.  My thoughts were less that hopeful that one could just pull out a toolbox and create a key that would open a lock, but to my amazement within a few minutes the lock gave way to his skills as a locksmith.  The camping trip went on as planned.

My father was an active member of the Alamance Wildlife Club, serving as president one year.  I remember my first time at the skeet range, raising a 20 gauge shotgun to the sky as I prepared to take my first shot at the clay disks flying through the air.  To my surprise, and everyone else's too I imagine, I stepped up to the first spot at the "high house", shouted "pull", and proceeded to blast the target from the air.  Once again I shouted "pull" and demolished the skeet coming from the "low house".  As I stepped away I could see the pride in my father's eyes after watching his young "Daniel Boone" performing so amazingly on his first try.  I don't think I hit another skeet the remainder of the day, but that memory is etched in my mind forever.

My father spent many years as an avid hunter, and was an instructor for the NC Wildlife Hunter Safety Course.  I remember him heading out early in the morning on numerous occasions hunting deer.  It seems like this went on for twenty years, and he always came be empty-handed.  My mother used to say the deer were safe as long as my father was hunting them, but one day he came home with his catch in tow.  He even crafted his own tree stand out of wood and metal, skills he somehow passed on to me, the results of which you can see on other pages in this website.

My father seemed to possess a knowledge that allowed him to troubleshoot and fix almost anything.  My mother used to complain that she could not ever get any new kitchen appliances because he always fixed the old ones.  He passed these skills on to his children, and together my two brothers and my sister could probably build a house.  As the years have passed, and my parachute from my adventure days rests in the corner, I derive extreme pleasure spending time out in my workshop, using some of his tools and much of his knowledge.

On March 7, 1970, there was a total eclipse of the sun, with the path of totality passing a few hours east of our home in Burlington.  It was a Saturday, so it made for the perfect family outing.  We drove east and ended up at some little gas station out in the country, with a picnic table and a tree hanging over it.  I remember during the three plus minutes of totality it became quite dark and the crickets started chirping as if is was nightfall.  What a wonderful trip for a young boy wanting to be an astronomer at the time.

Then there was the time my brother Tommy and I were taken out on a deep sea fishing trip.  The boat was named the Tradewinds, and I remember the sea being somewhat rough and getting very wet because I was standing up near the front taking the blast from the waves as we cut through them.  We caught so many fish on that trip that my brother and I together had trouble holding them up on a string at the end of the expedition.  A very successful outing indeed!

One other memory related to fishing is when I caught the biggest fish of my life in one of the marshy areas off of the inland waterway at Sunset Beach.  I recall my father sitting on the deck of the beach house as I fished below, and when my fishing pole nearly bent in half from the weight of the catch, my father came running down and assisted in the catch.  After I got the fish onto land, he was working his way back toward the water and my father jumped over the deck railing and grabbed it before he found his way back home.  This moment inspired one of my poems called "The Fisherman".

During my fathers last days in a hospice care center, one of the information pamphlets at that facility had the poetic piece below, which helped me with his impending death.  I read this at his memorial service, and wanted to share it with you: