Adam Lovelady, Milton's Son Spoke at his Funeral. He posted his message on Facebook. I have copied his words from his Facebook post to share with his forum family. To me Adams' message was genuine and heartfelt too. He made it through very well. I spoke at my mom's funeral and know the difficulty he faced.
Today is a sad day. We buried our dad,
Milton Lovelady. At the service I shared some words about him. The words fall short, but they point toward the great man he was. Here’s what I said:
Through his years, Dad was a hard-working farm boy and a sharp-shooting basketball player. He was a math whiz and a Biblical scholar. He was a kind administrator and a creative computer programmer. He was so many things . . . he was something of an Alabama Renaissance Man.
But he was much more than titles and occupations. Poppa created spaces for us to thrive. He showed us how to live and how to love. He provided nourishment—for our bodies and our souls. We will carry forward Poppa’s legacy because of how he invested us.
Poppa created spaces for us to thrive. Growing up, our backyard was a kid’s paradise. Dad laid out a full wiffle-ball field in the back yard—bases set into the ground, foul lines carved into the grass. He strung a trapeze and swing HIGH up in a tree. When Dad swung you on that swing, you went a bazillion feet high. There was a garden and bow-and-arrow range and pool and treehouse and muscadine vines and more. Thinking back, that backyard was the stuff of legends . . . a magical creation by some wizard of fun. He just happened to be our dad.
That same passion for creating amazing spaces carried over to hunting. Many of you knew Milton as an avid hunter, and he was. Some of you know that was not always the case. When I was a kid, I caught the hunting bug and Dad would tag along as the chauffeur. As time went on, he caught the bug too. He built tree stands, planted green fields, and took the old tree house in the back yard and turned it into two shooting houses for the farm. But here’s the key: He wasn’t chasing some trophy for HIS wall. He wanted to create the space for the rest of us to succeed. Early on, I was the primary beneficiary. But he broadened that to coworkers and friends and, of course, his grandkids. He loved nothing more than putting someone in the right place for a successful hunt—like he did just last week.
He showed us how to live and how to love. Poppa was not afraid to play and have some fun. That’s part of what made him such a great father and grandfather. He would ride the waves at Myrtle Beach, kayak the rapids of the Coosa River, and hike mountains in Maine. He held on to that 1990s Sea-Doo (for too long probably), because it would jump the waves at Lake Martin better than the newer ones.
He was always ready to play with the kids: princess tea parties, sledding in the snow, flying paper airplanes into ceiling fans, whatever. Poppa would make up new rules for existing games (while you were playing them); and he created entirely new games, like a recent creation, “My Pillow” pillow fights. He would pull out his computer to search for Pokemon and drones. When Poppa visited a few weeks ago I texted to ask if he and Andrew were doing okay. The response was familiar and predictable: “Yes sir. About to have a nerf gun rematch.”
He relished the chance to cheer on his grandkids. Along the sidelines of football games and tennis courts in Alabama. Along the cross-country tracks and ultimate frisbee fields in North Carolina. Along the rugby pitch in Colorado—wherever his grandkids were, Poppa was cheering. And it should be emphasized . . . he is cheering still.
He provided nourishment—for our bodies and our souls. Milton took such pride in sharing his bounty. The smoked pork, the grilled Conecuh sausage, the fried squash and okra, the pound cake and peaches and ice cream . . . and, of course, the heirloom tomatoes. There was no better tomato around. And he shared them, generously. He shared the fruits from his multiple gardens, he shared the seeds that he meticulously saved, he shared the seedlings that he grew in his greenhouse. He was like a Johnny Appleseed with Cherokee Purples.
Poppa’s food was delicious, yes, but it was more than simple food. It was caring. It was love. Tomatoes were his love language. On Thanksgiving morning Wanda grabbed the last Poppa tomato from her windowsill. It was shaped like a heart.
It should be noted that all of this—the amazing play spaces, the great hunting land, the smoked meats and bountiful garden—it was hard, hard work. Milton knew how to work. Even as his years grew long and the ailments increased, he worked.
He was not perfect. None of us are. Everything, all the projects, were works in progress. And those projects did not necessarily meet the exacting standards of applicable electrical codes. If it wasn’t broken too bad, then “It’ll do.” He could have a temper. He could get thrown out of a little league baseball game. He, on occasion, showed the classic Lovelady trait of presuming that those helping him with a project could read his mind. We could not.
Despite that, all of the good came together at the Lake. The space, the fun, the nourishment . . . it was all there. On a good day at Poppa and Nana’s, you could catch a mess of fish, hold on for dear life on a tube behind the boat, pick a bushel of tomatoes, shoot targets, get a four-wheeler stuck in the mud, and eat some GORP . . . all before lunch.
It was fun, sure, but the Lake was more than that. It was a place of respite, where still waters and hot coffee smoothed the frayed edges of our busy lives. It was a place for family to connect. It was a place to take a girlfriend and even get engaged. It was a place to gather to celebrate weddings. It was a place to gather and brace for a terminal illness.
If we had known this day was coming so soon, we would have gathered at the Lake. We would have eaten great food. We would have prayed hard. We would have sat together quietly on the porch and watched an afternoon storm roll in. We would have thanked Poppa for how he nourished us and loved us and gave us spaces to succeed.
But we didn’t know this day was coming. Yet, here we are . . . at Rehobeth.
It is poignant to be at Rehobeth. For all my years I’ve known Rehobeth as the church up the hill. The place where ancestors are buried: OB and Elsee, Ralph and Myrtle. I looked up the Biblical story of Rehobeth. It comes from Genesis. Isaac led his people to settle in a valley, but struggled to find land that was not already claimed. After being run off from a couple of places, Isaac “moved on from there and dug another well, and no one quarreled over it. He named it Rehoboth, saying, 'Now the LORD has given us room and we will flourish in the land.'”
Given us room so that we may flourish. Aint’ that something. In so many ways, Dad gave us room so we could flourish. He showed us how to live and how to love. He nourished us. We are better for having walked this life with Milton.
And so . . .
May we hold tight to the warm memories of our Dad and Poppa and Husband and Brother and Friend;
May we continue to flourish in the spaces and legacy that he leaves behind;
And may we carry forward the love he showed by nourishing those around us.
Hallelujah. Amen.
