After living in our home for a few years, he and his brother, from whom he had been separated while in foster care, were reunited and adopted by a family. They lived on a farm a few hours away from our home. Although it was always difficult to say goodbye to someone you would not likely see again, it was a dream come true for a little boy who wanted desperately to reunite with his brother and have a permanent home.
It takes a particular type of couple to decide to open their home to children in need. It did not take incredible insight for me to recognize the difference between my home and the previous homes of the foster kids who were sleeping in the bedroom next to mine. Once again, I understood that my parents were truly unique.
A GLOBAL PERSPECTIVE
Because of my parents’ faith and love for people, it did not seem that unusual when my dad decided to go Guyana, South America, in 1982 with Benny and Kitty Mullins from our church. A former British colony, it is the only country in South America where the official language is English. A small country of fewer than 800,000 residents, it is bordered to the north by the Atlantic Ocean and to the south by Brazil. Venezuela is to the west and Suriname is to the east. Although it is not an island, it is considered a part of the Caribbean due to its distinctive culture. The vast majority of its citizens are the descendants of African slaves or indentured workers from India.
It was the first time my dad had traveled outside of the United States, and he felt an instant bond with the people he met. He had a deep respect for the determination, intellect, and perseverance of the Guyanese. Over the next several years, dad began taking volunteers with him to further the work. When we became teenagers, my brother and I started traveling with him. We would work in the capital city of Georgetown or at a church camp located on the edge of the Guyanese jungle.
While on one of these trips, dad asked me to go with him to purchase some food for the camp. Because it was so remote, some areas could only be reached on foot or by motorcycle. We traveled to a nearby village where one of the residents owned a generator and a freezer. Our goal was to buy some frozen meat. After purchasing the food, we were invited by the family who owned the freezer to stay for a meal. Declining the offer would have been considered rude, so we accepted.
Many of the homes in the area were built on piers or stilts. We climbed the stairs to the main floor and were seated at a round table in the middle of the main room of the house. The owner of the home and another man that I did not know sat at the table with us. As a teenager, there was little pressure for me to engage in conversation and doing so would have likely been considered culturally inappropriate. Consequently, I sat quietly, listening to the conversation. A few moments later, food was brought to the table. After the four of us were served, I noticed that we were the only ones who had been given food. The women and children stayed in the kitchen or lined-up against the wall of the room where we were eating.
It was a humbling moment to realize we were eating their food. I did not want to show disrespect to our hosts, but I also knew how poor the families were in this area, and I did not want them to suffer on my behalf. The Guyanese have been exploited for centuries, and our genuine desire was to serve them, not to be served. I ate as little as possible without being rude, and after the meal, we expressed our gratitude and left. If my father had encouraged us to go to Guyana to see the world from a different perspective, it had worked.
Eventually, we began taking medical supplies to the doctors and nurses at the public hospital in Georgetown. As trust was established, we asked if we could assist in the children’s ward. They agreed, and we began going to the hospital with the goal of bringing joy to the kids who were confined there. The children shared one large room with multiple beds and we brought coloring books and played games with them. In addition to the children who were in the hospital due to illness or injury, some were confined to the children’s ward because they had been abandoned. We were told that most of the babies left behind had HIV.
Connected to the hospital was a narrow porch with several rocking chairs. The porch provided a place to get fresh air and an occasional ocean breeze. Our task was to hold the infants and toddlers and rock them to sleep. The kids we held in our arms were small and frail. Over the course of a few days, the children would anticipate our arrival and would light up when we walked into the room. I was shaken when we came in one afternoon to rock the babies, and noticed that one of them had been wrapped carefully from head to toe in a white sheet. I looked in the crib and saw that a piece of paper had been pinned to the sheet providing the details of the child’s death.
Leading trips to Guyana became a way of life for my dad. If he was effective on his own, when my mother was eventually able to join him on the trips, they became all the more impactful. Although Guyana would always have a place in their hearts, they started doing similar work in other countries as well. I estimate dad has either led or participated in well over 75 trips to different places around the world since his first trip to Guyana. It takes a special kind of people to forge friendships across the globe, and my parents, without any fanfare, have done so in Belize, Cuba, Guatemala, Guyana, Honduras, Indonesia, Jamaica, Mexico, Ukraine, and Zambia. People love my parents and it is due in large part to the fact my parents love them. It is nothing short of amazing to see what can happen when people choose to love and respect others.
Today, my parents live outside of Little Rock, Arkansas and work as a team with the faith-based, non-profit Health Talents International (HTI). Through HTI, they assist in the coordination of medical mission trips to Guatemala. Each year, there are a dozen or more weeklong programs for groups of 25 to 55 people. In addition to the short-term efforts my parents help coordinate, HTI also has two clinics that are led almost exclusively by highly qualified Guatemalans. The primary base of operations is at Clinica Ezell, located in Montellano, Guatemala. Clinica Ezell has 3 operating suites, a pharmacy, lab, diagnostic room, dental clinic, a 50-bed patient ward, and an adjacent dormitory that sleeps 60. The second location, Clinica Caris, is located in Lemoa, Guatemala. Clinica Caris has two dental operatories, two exam rooms, and a pharmacy, along with a lab and storage area.3
If you are looking to invest in a worthy non-profit, I would recommend HTI without reservation. Although the programs are health-related and healthcare professionals are needed, you do not have to be in healthcare to participate in a short-term effort. There is plenty of work to be done. If you would like to forge lifelong relationships and want to serve, I would encourage you to consider joining with my parents or other HTI professionals on a life-changing trip. (More information can be found about HTI at http://www.healthtalents.org)
A BUCKET LIST ITEM
My dad and I were talking on the phone in early 2014. At the time, my parents were living in a home they had recently built on the top of a ridge in Ringgold, Georgia. Their house was just about a mile south of the state line of Tennessee on the outskirts of Chattanooga. I was sitting in my living room in Oklahoma City. We were talking about taking a road trip, together with my brother, later in the year.
Matt Mellor is my only sibling, and he is two years older than me. He has a large frame and broad shoulders, and he stands at 5’-10”. He has a full head of brown hair, inquisitive blue eyes, and an easy smile. A longtime educator and administrator, he was the principal of Daisy Bates Elementary in Little Rock, Arkansas, at the time my dad and I were planning the trip.
A cancer survivor and a devoted father, he cares deeply about the welfare of children. In addition to his work as an educator, he is a talented musician, carpenter, mechanic, IT aficionado, and lifelong learner. He holds 3 degrees from Harding University, a Bachelor of Music Education, Master of Education, and an Education Specialist degrees. He is currently pursuing his fourth degree, the doctorate in Educational Leadership.
This conversation was not the first time dad and I had talked about taking a road trip. Considering we had not yet chosen a destination nor blocked
out time on our schedules, I think he sensed that another year could be lost when he interrupted and said, “Son, I’ve got a bucket list item.” He had never used this phrase before, and it got my attention. He continued, “Fifty years ago when I was in high school, I got to go to an Ohio State football game.” He paused and then said, “I would like to go back, and I would like for my boys to take me.”
My dad is not the kind of person who asks for much, if anything, for himself. When we were growing up, he was the kind of dad who would buy his clothes at Goodwill so his sons could get new clothes at Sears. His “bucket list item” was not a dying wish, but it was a wish nonetheless. There was only one response available, and I said, “Yes, sir. We will make it happen.” I connected with my brother, we found a weekend that would work and began making plans.
On November 1, we left from my parent’s house while it was still dark to get to the famed Ohio Stadium in time for the pregame show. Although dad was a football coach, he had always had an appreciation for a good marching band, and many consider Ohio State’s band to be the best. When my brother was in high school, he chose band over football, and although he would have been a good football player, there was never a single negative word spoken about it. My dad thought it was great.
With that said, one of my favorite stories about my brother was when he decided to go out for spring football at the end of his junior year. As the name suggests, spring football happens in the spring semester. The team practices together for a few weeks, and then plays an inner-squad game. Spring football provides the players an opportunity to get in shape and learn new plays, and it gives the coaches a chance to evaluate talent for the next school year.
We had a solid team, and earlier that year, the team made it to the conference championship but lost 6-0 in a tough game. Most of the starters from that talented team would be returning, and my brother had been more than capable of holding his own against several players who would eventually be named all-conference the next season when they won the conference championship in a blowout.
The coaches knew he was a leader in the band, and at the end of spring football, one of the coaches asked if he was going to play football in the fall or stay in the band. The question had been posed in a friendly way with genuine interest. Matt replied that he was, “Going to stay with the band.” Considering spring football can be very physical, the coach was surprised by my brother’s response. Intrigued, he asked, “Why would you go through this if you did not want to play next season?” Matt replied, “I just wanted you to know that a band kid could play if he wanted to.” That fall, instead of playing on the football team, he was the drum major for the band. Although he would eventually learn to play several instruments, he played the sousaphone throughout high school and college.
Even if you have the slightest of interest in college football or in college bands, you are likely familiar with the famed Script Ohio. The Ohio State Marching Band has performed this formation during pregame since the fall of 1936. In single file, the band spells the word Ohio in cursive. Each week, one upperclassmen sousaphone player is selected to dot the “i” in the cursive Ohio.4
The three of us sat side-by-side in anticipation, and the band did not disappoint. Marching in perfect unison, the drum corps took the field. A moment later, via the famed “Ramp Entry,” the band arrived. It is both impressive and surprisingly emotional to see the performance live. After the band was in position, the drum major, dressed in white and holding the Gray Baton, high stepped onto the field stopping at the 35-yard line. The drum major then did a backbend so deeply that the feather on the top of his white hat touched the ground.
The band wore dark, navy blue uniforms highlighted with white belts, gloves, and spats over their black shoes. Because it was a night game, the lights shone off of the silver instruments, especially the sousaphones. The sound generated from the 192 student musicians on the field was staggering.
As we neared the 8:00 p.m. kickoff, it was becoming apparent we were not dressed properly for the cold. Each of us wore blue jeans, long sleeve shirts, coats, and tennis shoes. When the temperature finally dropped below freezing, and the wind began to blow through the stadium, we became increasingly uncomfortable.
True to form, although each of us was shivering uncontrollably, none of us would acknowledge the cold. We did our best to remain as stoic as possible for as long as possible. When we saw someone walk past with hot chocolate, I offered to get some for the group. The drink came in a souvenir cup, and they were $9 each. It was so cold that the price did not matter. A few moments later, I was carrying three cups of overpriced hot chocolate back to our seats.
We were there to watch the game, but each of us knew the trip had little to do with football or the band. Dad’s “bucket list item” was about spending a weekend with his sons. With that said, it was a nice bonus when dad’s beloved Buckeyes defeated Illinois 55-14 on their way to winning the National Championship that year.
Usually, the return trip from Columbus to Chattanooga would take about 7 hours. It is a scenic drive south on Interstate 71 and then on I-75 South through Cincinnati, Lexington, Knoxville, and finally, Chattanooga. Instead, we decided to go the “long way” back so we could go through dad’s hometown of Marietta, Ohio. It would add a few hours to our trip, but it would give us a chance to travel through the small town where my dad grew up. In addition to it being his hometown, it is also our family’s ancestral home. Before the road trip, I had been doing some research online about our ancestors. In the process, I located a small graveyard where many of our people had been buried, but for unclear reasons, its existence had been forgotten. We thought it would be meaningful to see the place and to connect with our past.
GOING HOME
The three of us drove down narrow roads that were bordered by farms. Some of the trees still had their leaves, which were a blend of red, orange, and gold. We traveled through Beverly, Ohio and crossed the Muskingum River into Waterford. Veering right on Buchanan Road and then straight onto Wells Road for another mile and a half, it struck me that the back roads we were now traveling had very likely been the dirt paths that our family had traveled on foot or by horseback. We kept right on Township Road 141 and took another right on 142. After just a few hundred yards, we turned left onto a gravel road, which led to the small cemetery.
It felt much warmer on Sunday than it had on Saturday. The sun shone brightly, the temperature was crisp, and the deep blue sky was mostly cloudless. Dad had turned the radio off to help concentrate as we were navigating the back roads. As we approached the family plot, no one spoke, which made the crunching sound of the gravel shifting under the weight of the car seem louder than normal. The road ran parallel to the graveyard, and when we got to the end of the path, dad brought the car to a stop.
We stepped out of the car and took inventory of our surroundings. Due to the falling leaves and the proximity of the farms, the air had a pleasant and earthy quality. A century earlier there had been a wooden church on this site, but there are no longer any visible reminders of the structure. In years gone by, our family gathered here to worship and to enjoy picnics on the grounds. The location is serene and it was easy to imagine the place filled with our family enjoying warm cider, cured ham, and pumpkin pies on a pleasant fall afternoon.
It appeared there were about 100 grave markers, and the oldest was in the far northwest corner of the small cemetery. Some of the markers were made of granite, but the older ones were made of sandstone. Many of the older headstones were worn smooth by the elements, and the names were either barely legible or were already lost to history. Among the oldest ones, a few still stand, but several were either lying on the ground or had been broken into pieces. We scanned the headstones for letters and words we could decipher. There was a great feeling of joy when we found our people. Most had been laid to rest in a single row. It was interesting to note that although the majority had retained the name Mellor, some had
changed the spelling to Miller or Meller. The oldest in the group was my sixth great-grandfather, Samuel. He was born on December 12, 1749, in England and had been laid to rest in this field on July 30, 1825.
The three of us stood there taking in a moment that did not require commentary. Beyond the cemetery, there are rolling hills in all directions, which are bordered by old and mature trees. There are a few ponds nearby, and north of the property, in the far distance, is the West Branch of Wolf Creek. Standing in silence, it felt that the past, present, and future had merged for a moment. While in the present, we were thinking about the past and contemplating our own futures. It was moving to connect with those who had gone before us on such a personal level. I felt at home as we stood in the same place where friends and family had gathered together to remember their loved ones, our ancestors, in days gone by.
It was while we were in this reflective mood that I asked my dad if he could show us around his hometown and let us see some of the places that were special to him. Although the detour would add even more time to our already extended trip home, he agreed. Soon, we were once again driving down curvy country roads headed toward Marietta. Our first stop would be the first house Dad remembered calling home.
DAVID RUSSELL MELLOR
David Russell Mellor, my father, was born on Sunday, April 20, 1947, in Marietta, Ohio. His parents, Glen and Helen, were both born in 1922, just a few years before the Great Depression. He was the youngest of three children.
It is unclear when or where Glen and Helen met, but by the time they were students at Marietta High School, they were a couple. Following graduation in 1940, he became a meat cutter and she worked as a telephone operator. They were both 19 when they were married at a small ceremony on July 12, 1941.
They had been married for five months and Helen was 2 months pregnant when Pearl Harbor was attacked on December 7, 1941 and America was pulled into World War II. Their firstborn, William, arrived in the summer of 1942 on July 10. Glen was drafted on October 30, 1942, but was classified as Class 3-A, which meant his service would be deferred “by reason of extreme hardship to dependents” until they had exhausted the pool of draftees in Classes 1 and 2.5 In August of 1944, he was called up and became one of the 839,000 Ohioans who would serve their country in the Armed Forces during the war.6
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