My hero, my father

Paula Cooksey
Contributor

Captain America vs. Hulk vs. Thor debates in recent times involve a lot of fictional characters, but for many, our heroes may be parents, teachers or mentors of a chosen craft – those who encourage and inspire us directly.
For me, it's my father. Now, you may be thinking these must be the writings of a rose-colored-glasses-wearing daddy's girl or a four-year-old boy, but I assure you I am not. I am aware that there was only one flesh and blood person who lived on Earth who was perfect, and that was Jesus Christ.
My father, Paul A. Cooksey, was born on Nov. 24, 1933, one of five sons to a tough, hardworking, poor farmer in Waukeenah, Fla. Like many families in rural America at the time, they struggled to survive. I can imagine, and heard through stories told by others, that the childhood of my father and his brothers was nothing like what most children experience today. There were no play dates. No toys. Their free time, when they had it, was spent hunting and fishing, which they enjoyed but also served the purpose of putting much needed food on the table. From an incredibly early age, they worked in a garden growing their own vegetables to eat and in the watermelon fields they farmed. When school was in session, they were allowed to attend, but as soon as the school day was over, they went to the fields to work until dark. There was no time for help with homework, and then it was supper, baths and bedtime, for which they were usually ready. Some of their fondest memories related to me were of spending time together and the love of their mother's cooking.
As the boys graduated from high school, they each joined the military, serving their country via the Army, Air Force, Navy and, in my father's case, the Marine Corps. In 1951, at just 17 and a half years old, my father joined and was sent to boot camp, initially at Camp Geiger and then nearby Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. He was then shipped to Japan and in 1952 arrived at his assigned destination in Inchon, Korea, where he served in the Korean conflict. For these young, small-town boys, the world must have been a scary place. Still, they stood up to the challenge before them.
After serving three years, my father returned home to find a job and try to improve his financial future. It was not an easy task, but he was willing to take what he could get to start and work hard as he had no money for school. He began working for the Florida Department of Transportation, paving roads in the blistering hot sun. Accustomed to demanding work in the heat, again he persevered.
It was at this time that he met and married my mother, Barbara A. Cooksey, to whom he has remained married for the past 66 years. Together they had four daughters and have been there for them in every way since. When we were young, my father worked two jobs during weekdays and a double shift on Saturdays. He fished, hunted and grew a full garden so that we always had food on the table and in the freezer. Our parents worked hard to see that we had opportunities that they never had, and, yes, though we had chores and were taught the value of an honest hard day's work, we had a much milder experience. They have been there for their grandchildren, great-grandchildren and even some whom they have adopted as theirs.
When my father was in his late 70s to 80s and still fishing a lot, he would always make sure the “old folks,” as he called them, who couldn't fish any longer, got fish. At 81 years old, my father while watering his garden one summer evening was attacked by a bobcat. He successfully wrestled him down and killed him with his bare hands, as that is all he had. He did not kill viciously, but in self-defense. He knew this animal's behavior was not normal, and he would need the body to test for rabies. This was all several years after he had suffered a traumatic hand injury, losing fingers and proper motion in his left hand, as well as after having undergone a quintuple bypass heart surgery when he was 76 years old.
No, you won't find him on the silver screen in tights and a cap, like some modern heroes. Most days he will be at home helping my mother, who has Parkinson's disease, with something or out working in his yard or in his church's yard. He still shares with his neighbors when he has a good crop. He fishes when he can and eats fish as often as he can. Though he now has more pains in his joints, he still has a can-do attitude. Sometimes, I think he feels less useful because he can't do as much, and that makes me sad. He has suffered many losses, weathered many storms, and, for me, my hero still stands strong. I am a blessed girl who still has much to learn from him.
I hope you will stop and remember all those to whom we should be grateful for their courage, sacrifice, passion and challenging work. Let us not take our freedoms for granted. There are many who do not have theirs. God bless America.