A Man Among Men

My father, Homer Morris, was blessed with many gifts. His humor and good nature were his trademarks in the first of the two lives he lived in his eighty-seven years. It was my good fortune to be a special part of the first of those two lives. I am his only child and he was the center of my world. There is a reason for that; I was born on Father's Day Sunday, 1953. He always said it was the best present he ever got, and from then on Father's Day was "our holiday". Whenever my birthday fell on Father's Day Sunday, we celebrated with a joint dinner. 

 I followed him every step he took and he loved teaching me to appreciate the same things he did. I was an Alabama fan from the time Pat Trammell took the field until today; it is still my passion and something he taught me to love. Few other things in life have given me more pleasure. When I was six he gave me water skis and taught me to ski. When I was seven it was a rifle, which he taught me to shoot. Next came a basketball and hoop. This daddy's girl was a genuine tomboy. As I got older, he taught me to shoot pool. I was pretty good for a girl, I thought, until he ran the table on me three times in a row, calling every pocket! He had won the city championship in pool, as had his father before him. I guess that's why they both were such good shots with a rifle. 

The second thing he loved best was the chenille rug business. From 1940 until the day the mill was sold to J.P. Stevens Co., he learned his trade at the knees of John and Jim and Will Maples. He was good at what he did and advanced rapidly. When the Maples family sold the business, John told Daddy it would be the best thing for him. He was right; Daddy became plant superintendent, and later general manager. He had worked at every job in the mill and had a perfect understanding of it; he could quote yarn weights and pattern numbers from memory and even repaired the boiler or laundry equipment if needed. He could also run a sewing machine. He even tried his hand at designing and some of his designs were quite good. They still survive in my mother's home. In addition to his unique qualifications, he was a genius at handling people. But the people he worked with were not employees, they were his extended family. Most of the workforce had been together for decades. No one called him Mr. Morris. He was Homer to everyone. I can remember when they occasionally had to work on Saturdays. Daddy would let everyone come in at 5 a.m., so they could leave at one, salvaging part of their Saturday. On these occasions Daddy would order barbecues from Leck's and feed everyone on the job. He was a great guy to work for, one of the reasons the union never got a foot in the door, during his tenure. 

All of this is background leading to his finest hour. In 1969 J.P. Stevens decided to close the mill and move it to South Carolina, taking a skeleton crew along for the start-up. They had badly misassessed the situation. Daddy, Carl Cameron, Bill Heath, Daniel (Boone) Jarrell, and Buron Thomas had no intention of moving; this was their home. So they proceeded to shut down and paid the salaried employees to stay on a few months to supervise the packing and moving. 

Long after the mill was empty, Daddy, who was still being paid, went early and stayed late every day. Mama wondered what he could be doing there. He had plenty of job offers, because his name was known in the textile industry. Some offers more than doubled his salary. I remember a discussion on possibly moving to Elijay, Georgia. Mama said, "Homer, we can go, keep our home and come home on weekends." She would have followed him anywhere. But he replied that our families were here and he wasn't seriously entertaining any offers. I, on the other hand, was relieved. The next year was my senior year at SHS and I wanted to stay here. 

 Finally one day Daddy came home with his briefcase and announced he was flying to North Carolina the next day. Mama wanted to know who was paying for this trip and why was he going. I will never forget his answer. He said, "Sally, in this briefcase I have figures proving I can run this plant in the black the first year of operation. I've been working on this for weeks. I can do it. I'm meeting with Alden Carpet Mills and Fieldcrest Mills; I already have appointments". Mama replied there was no need to do that. He replied, "Sally, I sit there every day in the office and the workers call wanting to know when the plant will reopen. They don't have other job offers to go to, and they are my best friends in the world". 

Daddy caught the plane, with only grit and a briefcase to make his sale. We heard from him once, the next day, but his meeting with Fieldcrest was scheduled the following morning, right before he had to catch his plane home. We were watching out the west window the next afternoon, when we spotted his car with the blinker on, coming up old two-lane Highway 72. We were outside to meet him before he got the car stopped. 

He jumped out laughing, flapping his briefcase, and hugging us both tightly. "I sold the mill this morning to Fieldcrest! I already have Bill, Carl, Buron, Boone, and me on the payroll and I can hire everyone back!" 

I looked at the man in the white Buick, but what I saw was a knight on a white charger. My heart almost burst with pride. This great man was my daddy! An honest to God hero, who had just saved two hundred people's jobs. After we settled in, he started phoning co-workers, and was still on the phone when I went to bed. I think it was the greatest day in his working life. I know it was one of the greatest in mine. 

So remember him for these things...a devoted husband and father, beloved by his co-workers, a friend to all. That is his true legacy. 

Happy Father's Day, Daddy! I'll always remember.