We were all real tickled near Christmas when Dawnyale, my other granddaughter-in-law, who’s married to Jake, announced she was pregnant. I called Dawnyale, “Dawnypoo,” as a nickname, and she’s a swell girl. A brand-new baby was going to be born in the summer of 2009, and I wanted to see that baby, you know, maybe hold him if I felt well enough. They found out the baby was a boy and named him Gavin, even when he was still in the womb. I thought that was a fine name for my great-grandson. I did.
That March 2009, I turned eighty six. It was a real quiet birthday at home. The weather warmed a bit, and I always liked to do anything outdoors, but it was harder to get out the door to sit on the front porch, and I needed to grasp a walker on the way out. I hated that walker, but if I sat outside, I could hear the train horn blow, then the chug-chug and steel-on-steel roar as it came by the yard. Dorothy would come out and hand me a cookie. That was about all I felt like eating. I didn’t exactly know why. All my life I’d had a good appetite. My favorite food was beef steak that I’d grill up myself. We always grilled everything—chicken, hamburgers. I loved to barbecue. Sometimes for dessert I’d fix up banana pudding, I liked it so much. I’d cut up the bananas, whip up the custard, and layer it all with vanilla wafers. But that spring, it was just Dorothy’s peanut butter cookies. She’d fix up a fresh batch nearly every day. Then, it was every other day, because I wasn’t eating as much. Then, maybe once or twice a week, you know. As the weeks wore on, I found I didn’t have any appetite at all, you know. Sometimes I’d wake up at four in the morning. I couldn’t tell you why, but on the days I felt sickest, I’d feel my best real early in the morning. Somebody would be up then, Dorothy, or maybe Margo if she was helping out, and I’d ask for a cup of coffee and one of Dorothy’s peanut butter cookies.
One morning I was up real early, and Dorothy was taking a fresh tray of cookies out of the oven, and I got to studying the way she looked in the kitchen. That coming October 8 would be our sixtieth wedding anniversary, and I thought about how long that is to spend with a person. She walked over to where I sat in my chair, adjusted my pillow, and gave me a plate with two cookies on it. I thought she was so beautiful, you know, with the lamplight on her hair like that. She was as beautiful that day as when I first married her. Shoot—she was more beautiful still. I wondered how I’d gotten so lucky, you know. To get a woman as good as my wife Dorothy.
The spring of 2009 came around. It got to be about May, and I thought I might go to the garage and grab me a rake, maybe start getting my garden ready for planting. I thought about it for several afternoons while sitting in my chair, rolling the thought of that garden around in my mind. I knew I wanted tomatoes and peas. Some onions this year. Beans. Cucumbers. All the things the family liked best. I was going to plant sunflowers, too, just like last year. They’d grow up big and high and be joyful and bright.
Wayne was over one morning, and I mentioned the garden to him. He put his shoulder under my shoulder and helped me out to the porch. I sat in a chair, breathing heavily.
Margo came around later that morning. She put on gardening gloves and adjusted the sunbonnet on her head. “You just sit, Daddy,” she said with a smile. “We’re going to plant that garden for you this year.”
The warm sunshine felt good on my face. A hummingbird purred on up to the feeder. A few others joined it, darting around, enjoying their meal. I nodded at Margo, then closed my eyes. I could hear Wayne getting the tiller out of the garage.
“You asleep, Daddy?” Margo asked. Her hand was on my shoulder, lightly. Margo had dirt on her gloves. She’d been out to the garden and back again. Some time had passed, but I didn’t know how long I’d been sitting there like that.
“No, Sissybug,” I said. Real slowly. “I’m not sleeping. I’m just resting my eyes.”
Maybe I got to dreaming. I don’t know, for I closed my eyes again, and only good memories came to me. One of my grandsons, Clay Powers, and me, always used to go fishing together. I bought him a boat when he was older, but when he was a little kid we’d go fishing in streams. Once, when Clay was just a tiny boy, we were fishing for carp and the fish were really pulling hard that day. So I tied a rope around Clay’s waist and tied the other end to a tree to keep him safe. I wished everybody I loved could always be safe, you know. That was what I wanted most now.
I think it was the day after Wayne and Margo planted my garden that Wayne stopped by the house to take me in for my doctor’s appointment. He put his shoulder under mine, but when I tried to stand I found I couldn’t.
Wayne carried me to the car. He got me a wheelchair at the doctor’s office, sat me in the chair, and wheeled me inside. We waited awhile, then were taken back by the nurse to the room. She took my blood pressure, checked a few things, then Wayne and I sat. After a while the doctor came in. “How you feeling today, Mister Powers?” the doctor asked.
“I feel like shit,” I said.
He chuckled, not unkindly. “Well, you’re eighty-six years old,” he said. “You’re supposed to feel like shit.”
“No, not like this,” I said. I didn’t smile back this time. This one was a real good doctor. His name was Dr. Pierce, and I called him Hawkeye, like the doctor’s name on M*A*S*H. But today it hurt to even shake my head. I sat there for some time while the doctor checked my heart rate, a few other things. Then he sat looking at my chart. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Wayne stood nearby, then took a seat on the extra chair in the corner. For a while, all was quiet in the room. Finally I said, “Hawkeye, I need to know if there’s anything more we can do for me. Level with me now.”
Even before he answered, I knew what the answer was going to be. Hawkeye looked me in the eye, then shook his head. He shook it slowly as if to be gentle with me. He shook his head no.
After that, I found I couldn’t walk anymore. Wayne needed to carry me wherever I went. To my chair. To bed. To the bathroom. Back to the chair. When I wanted a peanut butter cookie or a cup of coffee, I found my hands didn’t work so well. Wayne fed me.
McClung wanted to fly out and see me. He called me on the phone, and I said thanks, but no. I didn’t want McClung to remember me like this. I didn’t say it to him quite in those words, but I think he knew what I was getting at, for he didn’t press the question.
Lieutenant Shames drove out to see me anyway. The visit was short, and I wasn’t feeling well at all. But I smiled to see him come by the house. He didn’t need to do that last bit of kindness, you know—that was several hundred miles for him to drive. But he did anyway. So that was good of him. It very much was.
Even when you’re sleeping, you can tell when people are talking in the room, you know. Sometimes, anyway. My daughter-in-law Sandy, well, her mother passed right around then. To make things worse, the night her mother passed, Sandy and her sister were in a car accident coming back from taking care of things. They flew right over the bank, and the car crumpled over on its side. It’s a wonder they weren’t all killed. In complete darkness, Sandy pulled herself up through the car’s window. She climbed on the side of the car, jumped up onto the hillside, and hollered down a passing car for help. Later, she came to see me and told me the story. She bent low so I could talk to her, and I said, “You did good, Sandy, you did good.” I meant that. She was that little girl who used to throw rocks at me, you know. I’d always known she was spunky.
A few days passed, and Margo told me it was early June. Frank Perconte was on the phone. Margo handed me the receiver.
“How you doing, Shifty?” Frank said.
“Not too good, buddy. Not too good.” My voice was barely a whisper.
Frank said something else, I didn’t hear what. Maybe it was Hang tough, you know, that’s what most of the Band of Brothers tell each other when they’re saying good-bye. Margo took the phone back from me. I closed my eyes.
I saw some light and then some darkness and then it was light again. Margo said another phone call was for me. A close friend of the family, Richard Copenhaven, was calling from out in
Utah where he lives. He asked how Dorothy was holding up. That was a good question, for when a man’s health is ailing, it can be a difficult time for his wife as well. I tried to say something, but I don’t know if my words were coming out clear.
Then he said, “Darrell, you got a beautiful bride.”
“You got that right, buddy,” I whispered. I knew that phrase came out clear.
It was light again, and then dark, and then light. My grandson Jake came into my bedroom. He brought an electric razor with him, and asked if I wanted a shave. He must have been remembering I always liked to have a clean-shaven face.
“Just leave my mustache,” I said.
He grinned.
I heard the shaver. I felt Jake’s hand holding my face. I closed my eyes.
“What day is it?” I asked.
“It’s June 12,” Margo said. She was sitting on the corner of my bed. Figures were passing by, dark. It was daylight outside. But the daylight was sad. Margo was holding my hand, and she pressed it to her cheek.
“What’s wrong?” I said. I closed my eyes.
“Oh, Daddy,” she said. Her voice was a whisper. The tears weren’t for me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked again. I fought to keep my eyes open.
“Daddy, we lost our baby today,” she said. “We lost Gavin.”
She was talking about Jake and Dawnyale’s baby. My great-grandson. Something had gone wrong with the pregnancy, and the baby didn’t make it. Dawnyale delivered him stillborn. Gavin was eight months along in the womb. They didn’t have any other children.
Margo was still there. There was darkness in the room. She was holding my hand, and I knew there are powerful times when a daughter just needs her father, you know, even when she’s all grown up, and even when he’s frail as a fall leaf. I gripped Margo’s hand. I gripped it with all my might. “It’s okay,” I said. My breath came raspy. It took all my air to say those words. I closed my eyes.
Margo bent down and hugged me close. She hugged me for a long time. Then she straightened up and held my hand again. My eyes opened, and she ran the back of her two fingers down the side of my face. Margo sat looking at me. I don’t know how long we were like that. Margo holding my hand. Me holding hers. I was so proud of Margo. I knew she’d be there to help her family. I knew Wayne would always be there to help his, too. I was so proud of my grandchildren, of Jake and Dawnyale, as tough a time as they were going through. I was so proud of all my family.
“Your garden’s going to be really good this year, Daddy,” Margo said at last.
The room was cool and soft, and I got to studying her words. I knew Margo was right. The tomatoes would be getting higher soon. The cornstalks would be getting leafy, with real good ears on them, you know. The sunflowers would soon be bright and joyful. Soon enough, they’d be as high as our heads.
My last garden had been planted well. I closed my eyes. The darkness was turning to light.
EPILOGUE
Shifty Powers died on June 17, 2009, at age eighty-six, five days after his great-grandson Gavin Johnson passed. In his last few days of life, Shifty Powers remained at home in his own bed until right before the end, when his family moved him to a room at the Wellmont Regional Hospital in Bristol, Tennessee, which is just over the state line from Clinchco, Virginia. He died in the hospital.
Shifty’s funeral was held on June 19. It was a small ceremony attended by family and friends. Shanghai Nickles gave the main eulogy. Now in his late fifties, he was the young boy whom Shifty had taken under his wing in Little League so many years earlier and taught how to pitch.
Johnny Sykes was a pallbearer. He was the postmaster at the Clinchco post office who’d helped Shifty in his last years with sorting through the fan mail he received.
Other pallbearers were Shifty’s grandsons, Jake Johnson, Clay Powers, and Luke Johnson, and three longtime family friends, David Robinette, Mike Strouth, and John Wesley Hawkins, a military man whom Shifty had once pinned stripes on in an advancement ceremony.
Following the funeral, a graveside service with military honors was conducted at the Temple Hill Cemetery. Shifty’s body was buried in a plot in Castlewood, a town about forty-five minutes from Clinchco. His brother, Jimmy, was buried there, along with some of Dorothy’s family. Dorothy plans to be buried there also when she passes.
At the funeral, Luke Johnson spoke the following words in tribute to his grandfather:I am the youngest grandson of Darrell and Dorothy Powers, and let me first say how honored I am that the family has allowed me to come up here and read this to you today. For to have the opportunity to eulogize a true American hero would be a privilege to anyone, it is especially so if that hero is your own grandfather.
Darrell Powers was a gentle, soft-spoken man who chose his words carefully and intelligently. He had a wonderful sense of humor. Growing up I can’t recall him ever raising his voice to the grandchildren, he didn’t have to. Because you didn’t want to disappoint him. He was a man who carried himself with such dignity and poise that it made you want to rise to meet that same standard. And to know that you had made him proud was a fantastic feeling. Because even before the books, before the miniseries, the world tours and Emmys, before all of those tremendous accolades, you knew you were in the presence of a truly exceptional person. In my opinion, one of the greatest men to come out of a generation filled with great men, and though I am honored to have, in the last decade, gotten to know the hero the world called “Shifty,” I am especially blessed to be one of the few who were fortunate enough to call him Pub.
I’d like to read to you a portion of a book that Shifty contributed to where he describes his life and what true success means. It is in these simple yet eloquent words where I feel Shifty Powers’ voice is truly heard.
My wife Dorothy and I have been married for a good many years. We have two kids, a boy and a girl, four grandchildren, and two great-grandkids. Throughout my lifetime, I’ve never given a thought to having piles of money or being rich or doing anything like that. Now, I worked hard, and if I wanted something, I liked being able to afford it. But to me, success is those happy times with my family, being able to go fishing and hunting, and just getting out in the woods and enjoying yourself, looking at trees, or watching water go across rocks in a trout stream, things like that. That’s always what really mattered to me. My life has been good. All the way back, I’ve always enjoyed it. 2
News of Shifty’s passing circulated quickly within the Easy Company circle of family and friends, then to fans of Shifty’s who had met him through speaking engagements or who knew him through the series. Within a week, multiple tribute sites had sprung up around the Internet. Literally thousands of messages of condolence for the family and gratitude for Shifty were posted on forum boards, Facebook pages, and tribute blogs. At least a dozen video tributes were made and posted on YouTube. E-mails flooded into the family. A random sampling of messages include these words:“I want the family to know that America is now grieving with them. Mr. Powers was a very brave and unique individual. Let us emulate his honor and integrity in our actions.”
“Thank God for men like Sgt. Powers. They are becoming harder and harder to find. He is truly a hero.”
“I and all Americans living are in debt to you and your comrades. I am deeply grateful for all of your sacrifices—but that is not enough. This country owes all who served a debt that can never be repaid.”
“His actions throughout his life made this world a better place.”
“My condolences to all the Powers family at the loss of your husband, father, grandfather, and friend. I do not know any of you, but was saddened none the less. I am grateful for the sacrifices he made for our country.”
“It was because of people like Shifty that I was allowed to live a free and productive life. My respect and sadness cannot be expressed to the fullest.”
“I never knew Darrell Powers except from the movie Band of Brothers. I do know that I owe him and his comrades an eternal debt of gr
atitude for their sacrifice for my freedom and my family’s. It is with great sorrow that we lay this hero to rest.”
On July 7, 2009, a businessman named Mark Pfeifer living in Charlotte, North Carolina, was watching the widespread news coverage that surrounded the passing of pop singer Michael Jackson, who had died just after Shifty, on June 25, 2009. Pfeifer said in later interviews that he was never against Jackson, he simply thought it was time that Shifty got a bit of recognition and “that people started paying attention to things that mattered.” Pfeifer had met Shifty once in an airport, but other than that, he had no connection to Shifty or the Powers family. Pfeifer drafted a short e-mail with the subject line “Memorial Service: You’re invited” and sent it out to about twenty of his friends.
The e-mail read:We’re hearing a lot today about big splashy memorial services.
I want a nationwide memorial service for Darrell “Shifty” Powers.
Shifty volunteered for the airborne in WWII and served with Easy Company of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, part of the 101st Airborne Infantry. If you’ve seen Band of Brothers on HBO or the History Channel, you know Shifty. His character appears in all 10 episodes, and Shifty himself is interviewed in several of them.
Shifty's War Page 23
