[Congressional Record (Bound Edition), Volume 150 (2004), Part 10]
[Senate]
[Pages 12982-12983]
[From the U.S. Government Publishing Office, www.gpo.gov]




                              FATHER'S DAY

  Mr. BYRD. Mr. President, as spring turns to summer, as the calendar 
rolls from Easter to Memorial Day to the Fourth of July, our workaday 
schedule is pleasantly interrupted by numerous holidays--days of 
remembrance, for the most part.
  We honor the death and the rebirth of the Lord Jesus Christ, and we 
honor the fallen heroes of our Nation's wars. We honor our mothers and 
the flag of our Nation. Graduation ceremonies honoring matriculating 
students have been taking place every weekend around the country as 
high schools and colleges conclude their academic years. In West 
Virginia--how sweet the sound--we honor the anniversary of our 
statehood this month as well. This Sunday, June 20, 2004, the 
penultimate day of spring, the Nation honors fathers.
  The word ``father,'' how sweet that sounds. Jesus taught us to pray, 
``Our Father who art in Heaven.'' The Bible says, ``Honor thy father 
and thy mother.''
  We can be sure that fathers will be honored this Sunday because it 
will be the mothers and the daughters who do the planning for this 
event--not the often inept party planners who call themselves men. Men 
can plan military campaigns and vacation travels, but somehow our 
skills frequently fall short at birthdays and holidays.
  Fathers do offer other talents, however. Fathers are builders--
builders of tree houses, builders of sand castles, of backyard patios, 
and model volcanoes for third grade science projects. Fathers are 
mechanics, for the family car as well as bicycles and, in this 
increasingly technology-laden day, computers, cell phones, and digital 
recorders and players of many purposes. Fathers are coaches for 
softball and junior soccer leagues, and fathers are chauffeurs for 
piano lessons and school dances. Fathers are workers, striving to keep 
their families fed and clothed and housed. Fathers are bankers, saving 
for college educations and making loans to start their youngsters off 
on a new career.
  Fathers do traditional things, such as mow lawns, take out the trash, 
pay the bills, and change the tires. But fathers are also cooks, 
launderers, and diaper changers.
  Fathers are part of the silent cheering section, rooting on their 
children with their solid presence at the back of recitals and 
grandstands, always pleased to mutter, ``That's my kid,'' ``That's my 
kid,'' ``That's my kid,'' to other spectators.
  Fathers may not always show the true depth of their emotions, but 
there can be no father who does not glow inwardly as his child's 
shining face seeks theirs, seeks the father's, asking the unspoken 
question: ``Did I do well, Pa?'' ``Did I do well, Dad?'' ``Did I do 
well?'' ``And are you proud of me?'' ``Are you proud of me, Dad?'' As 
fathers, men are honored and humbled by the seeking of their approval, 
silently savoring the precious father-child bond.
  I was raised by just such a silent man. My uncle, Titus Dalton Byrd, 
worked hard all of his working life in the coal mines of southern West 
Virginia. He never had much. I have heard others say: Well, I am the 
first in my line to have a college education. Or I am the first in my 
line to have a high school education. I am the first in my line to even 
go to the second grade.
  This was my dad. He was not my biological father, but he was my dad. 
He was the greatest man I have ever met, and I have met with shahs and 
kings and princes and princesses, Presidents, Senators, Governors. This 
was the greatest, the greatest of all.
  As I say, he never had much. He did not have much of an education. He 
did not have vacations. He was a man of few words. He walked to work, 
carrying his lunch in a pail, and he was grateful to be able to walk 
home at the end of the day, having worked all day, having toiled in the 
bowels of the Earth, having earned his bread by the sweat of his brow. 
Yes, I can see him.
  He took me in as an infant, less than 1 year old. He did all that he 
could for me. He gave me his name. He encouraged me in my school work. 
He never bought me a cowboy suit or a cap buster. He bought me 
watercolors with which to paint. He bought me my first violin. In these 
ways, he gave me gifts that have stayed with me throughout my life.
  So when I wanted to seek a job working in the mines to be like him, 
the man I call my dad discouraged me--discouraged me. He took me back 
into the mountains, into the bowels, into the depths of the Earth on a 
mine motor so that I could hear the timbers cracking, so that I could 
see the water holes in which he and other coal miners plodded their 
way, often on their knees. Yes, he showed me where he worked. He said 
the mines were dangerous places to work, and they were in those days 
especially. He wanted better things for me, and he urged me to get an 
education, a formal education.
  He had the heart of a father. He wanted life to be better for his boy 
than it was for him. He made whatever sacrifices he had to make in 
order to make his dream come true. He couldn't

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give me much, but he gave me the best example. He set the best example 
that he could each and every day of his life.
  He could have complained. He could have been a complainer. He could 
have whined. But he did neither. He just got up day after day and set 
out to work, and every day he came home tired. But he would save 
something sweet from his lunch for me. I used to watch him coming down 
the railroad tracks from a mile away, that tall man with black hair and 
red mustache. I saw him coming down the railroad tracks, and I would 
run to meet him. When I came near, he would stop, take the lid from the 
dinner pail and reach in and get a cake, a 5-cent cake. In those days, 
these were 5-cent cupcakes--5 cents. My mom had put into his lunch this 
cake every day. She knew what he would do with it. He took that cake to 
work, and then when I came near him, as he came walking on those cross-
ties down the Virginian Railroad tracks, there in that coal mining camp 
in southern West Virginia, that tall man reached into the dinner pail 
and he pulled out that 5-cent cake, and he gave the cake to me.
  From the morning when he arose to toil in the mines, he must have 
looked forward to the time in the afternoon when he would be giving 
that cake to me. He always gave the cake to me.
  I wonder if I appreciated, as I should have, I wonder if I even 
understood all of his efforts, all of his sacrifices at the time of 
their commission. I am sure I did not, but age and fatherhood have 
given me greater insight into the life of this quiet man, this good 
dad, my dad.
  Yes, I have walked with the greatest of the Earth, the leaders of the 
world. I sat down, as I said, with kings, princes, shahs, Governors and 
Presidents, but this was the greatest of them all. He was great because 
he was good.
  This Nation is full of good fathers, fathers who work hard, fathers 
who come home tired, fathers who take care of their families. Most days 
they do not get much attention, these armies of good fathers. Headlines 
are not made by them. Unfortunately, headlines are made by bad fathers, 
not the good ones.
  This Sunday, the good fathers will be fussed over, but they will 
enjoy every moment of attention. Some men will spend their Father's Day 
far away from home, serving in Iraq, Afghanistan, or in other dangerous 
places. Some men will work on Father's Day protecting the Nation at 
home in police and fire departments. For these men, Father's Day 
celebrations may be delayed but nonetheless sweeter for the wait.
  I am the father of two daughters, mothers now themselves, even 
grandmothers. I am a great-grandfather, and I can attest that it is 
indeed great to be a great-grandfather.
  As my sweet wife Erma and I celebrated our 67th wedding anniversary 3 
weeks ago, I had the very special pleasure of sharing that occasion 
with most of my family and with friends. I could look around the long 
table past my wife's beautiful face and see small snatches of her and 
of myself in the voices, the gestures, the faces of three generations 
looking back at me. I am so proud of these.
  ``Yet, in my lineaments they trace, some features of my father's 
face.'' So wrote the poet George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron, in his poem. 
It is at times like these that one can feel the tide of history flowing 
from the generations before me to the young faces just setting out on 
the long ride of life.
  We strive to be remembered by our loved ones, as my dad strove to be 
remembered. To all the good fathers out there and in honor of my own 
dad, who is looking down today from heaven, I close with a few lines 
that I learned and recited when the days were young.
  In those days, children routinely did such things as memorize poetry. 
And I say to the fine Senator who presides today over this body, it is 
one of a multitude of poems that were taught to children in order to 
teach them lessons, and this one is just a few lines titled, ``The 
Little Chap That Follows Me,'' or in some instances, ``A Little Fellow 
Follows Me.'' This was written by the Reverend Claude Wisdom White, 
Sr., and it reminds me of how my dad lived, a noble man whom I never 
heard once, in all of the years, use God's name in vain. I never heard 
him tell an off-colored joke. That was the man whom I remember this 
day. Thank God for a man like Titus Dalton Byrd.

     A careful man I ought to be,
     A little fellow follows me.
     I dare not go astray,
     For fear he'll go the self-same way.

     I cannot once escape his eyes,
     Whatever he see me do, he tries.
     Like me, he says, he's going to be,
     The little chap who follows me.

     He thinks that I am good and fine,
     Believes in every word of mine.
     The base in me he must not see,
     That little fellow who follows me.

     I must remember as I go,
     Thru summers' sun and winters' snow.
     I am building for the years to be,
     In the little chap who follows me.

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