For Harold Higgerson

A good friend of ours passed away this week. Harold Higgerson. His death marks the first time I've known someone who literally died of pure old age. He was 96.

Harold began Higgerson-Buchanan Inc.; at one time, his company was the largest earthmoving company on the eastern seaboard. They completed the site work for Greenbrier Mall. The Rte 168 bypass. I-64. Every time I see one of their sunshine yellow, pristinely polished dump trucks barrelling down the road Juni smiles and says "Mommy! That's a Don (Harold's son) truck!"

Jasen loves the Higgerson family. They have taken him under their wings, taught him, loved him as one of their own, and supported him and our business. Without them, Jasen says he would be no where. I don't know if that's particularly true, but you get the idea. The work they pass along to us is our bread and butter. These are loving, giving people. Whom I love, as well.
Jasen and I had been married about a year when I met Harold. He was 90. He'd given the reigns of the business over to his sole child, Don, and lived with Don and his wife in their mother-in-law suite.
I felt like I was going to meet The Grandfather. Jasen had so many stories of this hugely successful man I actually felt butterflies stir. What was I going to say to this man? Seriously...The Grandfather of sitework. And ridiculously good at it, too.
So imagine my surprise when I walk into the house. Here is this bear-of-a-man with hands the size of dinner plates. Swollen from years of work. He's sitting at the kitchen table, a paper towel tucked into his shirt. And he is literally devouring an entire Styrofoam box of Pollard's Chicken's liver and gizzards. Yellow grease drizzles down the creases of his chomping jaw. A pile of poultry bits is gathering on the floor, in his lap, and on his shirt.
He's hard of hearing, so I'm practically yelling "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Higgerson!" "Huh?" He says, his chicken treats spewing from his mouth. "You Jasen's wife?" "Yes, sir! It's nice to meet you!" "Nice to meet you too, young lady. What the hell are you doing with this kid?"
I love this man instantly. My grandaddy worked quite a bit with Harold, and always told me how much he respected him. My dad will attend the funeral tomorrow. As will probably 500 other people.
Juni will be in school, unaware that his Daddy is probably crying under his sunglasses. As will I. Anyone Juni loves, I love. He calls Harold "the old guy who rode the tractor and fell asleep in the shop with all the dumptrucks." Perfection.
I look at Harold's life as an ultimate specimen. He worked hard. Smiled hard. Came from literally living in a tent with his newlywed to owning one of the largest, most respected companies this area has ever seen. He oversaw the business and drove his tractor around the grounds less and less in his twilight, but people knew he was there. They listened when he spoke. They respected him. They loved him. He was burly and brash and lovely, all wrapped up into a working man's body.
And he died, peacefully. On his own terms. In his own time. Goodbye, Mr. L Harold Higgerson. You will forever stay in my family's hearts and minds. May you enjoy an endless supply of chicken liver and gizzards. You surely deserve them.

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/pilotonline/obituary.aspx?n=l-harold-higgerson&pid=150238047