A generation earlier, Hank and Arvoca had longed to attend college at Harding, but World War II and other practical matters made it unfeasible. As a result, sending their two daughters there was a dream come true. Susan graduated from Glendale High School in 1967 in Springfield, Missouri, and started at Harding that fall.
My mother, Susan, recalled the first time she noticed my dad. He was playing with a little boy who appeared to be 3 or 4 years old. Standing near the Lily Pool, he was swinging the child over the water and acting as if he might let go. The boy screamed in delight as if it were the best Disneyland had to offer. She noticed the way he interacted with the boy and thought, “That guy is going to be a great dad.” Considering her dad was the greatest man she knew, the fact that this had been her first impression was significant.
The two became friends, but they did not date. My dad was in a serious relationship that he thought would lead to marriage. When the person he thought would become his wife broke up with him, he was surprised by his feelings. Instead of wanting to fight for the relationship, he found himself walking to my mother’s dorm to see if she would like to go on a date. She said “yes,” and the two began dating in the spring of 1968.
For some people, if they were asked to identify the turning point moment in their lives, they would have to stop and think about it. This would not be the case for dad. From the moment he started dating, Susan Hankins, he charted a new course.
Frustrated by his inability to take her on what he considered a “real” date, due to a lack of funds, one afternoon, while standing near the edge of the Lily Pool, he jokingly said to a friend, “If I do a flip into this water, will you give me a quarter?” Considering the water was less than 18 inches deep, his friend was intrigued. He said, “Sure!” There was a bench near the edge of the pool, and a few moments later, he successfully made the dive. A crowd began to form, and he offered new spectators the same deal. In a few minutes, he had the money needed to take her out.
Life was good for the couple, but there were issues that threatened the budding relationship. One was uncertainty about the Vietnam War. Like most men during that time, David wrestled with what to do. He wanted to do what he thought was right, but for a host of reasons, discerning what was right was complicated. Although there were some at that time who were enrolling in college to avoid service, this had not been his motivation. Being in college would defer his service as long as he was successfully pursuing his undergraduate degree, but once he was no longer a student, he would immediately become eligible for the draft.
In anticipation of finishing school, he had a few options to consider. One option was to enlist. His brother, who was nearly five years older, had enlisted in the Army a few years prior. He served stateside and in Germany before being honorably discharged prior to the escalation of the Vietnam War. If he chose this option, he could be more selective about which branch of the Armed Forces to join. The problem was that, although he had respect for those who served in this capacity, he would only be choosing to serve because of Vietnam. Based on his life experiences, he knew the impact that he could make in the lives of young people through athletics, and he wanted to choose a path that allowed him to follow his passion through coaching.
Another option would be to wait to see if he was drafted. Considering one, if not both of his grandfathers, had been drafted for World War I and his father had been drafted for World War II, he knew the possibility of him being drafted for Vietnam was very real. If he waited for the draft board to decide his fate, he would lose control over choosing the branch in which he would serve. After a great deal of consideration, he chose not to enlist. He concluded that he would not do anything to avoid the draft, and if he were required to serve, he would do so to the best of his ability.
In an effort to make the draft more equitable, in 1970, the Nixon administration adopted a lottery process. On December 1, 1969, young men, specifically those born from 1944-1950, along with their friends and family, gathered anxiously around televisions and radios to listen to a life-changing broadcast. The process was straightforward: 366 plastic capsules were placed in a large glass bowl. Inside each of the small containers was a slip of paper on which one day of the year (including February 29) had been written. Drawn one at a time, each capsule was opened and then announced. The first date to be announced was September 14th. Consequently, the men born from 1944-1950 on September 14th were assigned the number 001. This “low number” meant they would be the first to be drafted. The second slip of paper read April 24th, which meant those born on the 24th would be assigned the number 002. The process continued until every day had been assigned a lottery number. My dad’s birthday, April 20th was a “high number,” and he was assigned number 345, which meant it was nearly certain he would not be drafted.6
The couple’s second hurdle was that my dad was struggling to stay in school. His undiagnosed learning disabilities required he put in more and more effort as he progressed through college. Often, he fully grasped the concept being taught, but when he attempted to transcribe to paper what was in his head, it was a disaster. He would never be tested or receive an official diagnosis, but the evidence strongly suggests that he had dyslexia.
Initially, he was placed on academic probation, which was meant to let a student know that they were beginning to fall behind. Eventually, he was placed on strict academic probation, which was the status given just before a student was dismissed for their grades. Susan recognized the problem was not his level of intelligence but something deeper. Armed with this awareness, she began assisting him by helping edit and type his papers. With help, he felt he had a fighting chance. Not only did his confidence begin to rebound, but his grades also improved.
There are numerous forms of leadership, but the approach my mother used with my father, and would later use on her sons, says a great deal about her personal character. She saw an opportunity to help my father realize his potential, and she used an amazing amount of wisdom in helping him find his way. Recognizing the challenges he was facing could not be fixed by simply working harder, she used quiet leadership to help bridge the gap.
He viewed himself as lacking intelligence, but she did not see him that way at all. She knew he was smart, but she also knew that judging his potential using the traditional academic standard was neither fair nor accurate. From her perspective, someone who was willing to work as hard as he was willing to work was bound to be successful. His tenacity and sheer determination was something to behold. Most people with challenges like his would have given up years earlier.
TRANSITIONS
As the relationship grew, he knew she was the one but he was not as confident that she felt the same way. He decided he was going to ask her to marry him but was not sure how she would respond. After thinking about it, he decided to pop the question on April 1st. His rationale was simple. If she said “no” he would play it off as an April Fool’s joke. If she said “yes,” he would be the happiest man in the world. When he asked, her answer was “yes,” and the two were married on Thursday, March 26, 1970.
He finished the spring semester in 1970 and had just two courses remaining before graduation when he got a call from a mentor, Gene Bell. Dad had worked part-time with “Mr. Bell” at the YMCA in Marietta for five years while in high school and college. Mr. Bell had recently moved to Vincennes, Indiana, to become the director of the YMCA, and he offered my dad the role of Youth and Aquatic Instructor.
He had not yet graduated, but he was so close they were willing to hire him anyway. The job would be a chance to launch his career with the “Y” and an opportunity to work alongside a mentor. In addition to his title at the “Y,” he would also be named the Knox County Water Safety Chairman and the swimming instructor for the Vincennes University’s swimming classes.
He accepted the offer. Before long, he and my mother moved to Vincennes to start their new life together. The local paper printed a picture of him with Mr. Bel
l and another colleague and incorrectly stated that he was a graduate of Harding. It was the first of many times he would be reminded that he had come close but had not yet finished his degree.
Although he planned to finish the last couple of classes, life quickly got in the way. The newlyweds had only been married for four months when my mother became pregnant. It was a time of celebration for the family, especially my mother’s family, as this would be the first grandchild for Hank and Arvoca.
Everything changed on Friday, March 12, 1971, when Susan’s dad passed away. He was just 48 years old. Although his heart condition had been serious for nearly a decade, his passing was crushing. The family assembled in Springfield and did their best to console one another. The funeral was massive as people from throughout the area gathered to express both their grief and respect for Hank. They were comforted by Hank’s abiding faith in God, but the loss was profound.
Sixty-six days after the death of her father, on Monday, May 17, 1971, Susan gave birth to Matthew Willis Mellor. The birth of a child is always a reason for celebration, but the arrival of this child was truly a gift from God. He was an island of joy in a sea of grief. Of all of the pictures of my grandmother, the ones I treasure the most are those from this time of life. She is holding my brother tightly, and her face is filled with genuine happiness. Her resilience was nothing short of remarkable. The same could be said for my mother and aunt, who had loved their father so deeply. My brother’s birth was a reminder of why people must go on, even in the face of great loss.
GRADUATES
With work and family obligations mounting, Dad’s dream of completing his degree began to fade. Money was tight, and he doubted that he could pass the courses. Furthermore, his career had already begun and getting the degree did not seem to be the highest priority. He focused his efforts on his family and his career and before long, the years began to pass by. If my dad harbored any hope of finishing his diploma, it was put on pause when my brother started college.
Matthew graduated from college in May of 1995. All of the family who could make it for the occasion sat in the Benson Auditorium at Harding University in anticipation. When his name was eventually called, it was the first time in history that someone with our last name had ever received a college diploma. While finishing his undergraduate degree, Matthew had also been taking several graduate courses that could be applied toward a Master of Education. Consequently, after finishing his undergraduate degree, he earned a graduate degree in August of the same year.
To complete the trifecta, I graduated from Harding in December of 1995. Although it was not as historic as my brother’s moment, it was a great moment nonetheless. A year later, in December of 1996, I asked Christie Bishop to be my wife. She said “yes,” and we decided to get married on Saturday, May 17, 1997.
In anticipation of coming to campus for the wedding, my mother called the registrar’s office at Harding to check on which classes my dad would need to complete in order to receive his degree. I am not sure what prompted her to make the call, but I can only assume that since she had gotten her sons through college, it was now time to finally get her husband through too. She gave them the information needed, and they replied that they did not yet have the records from that era in the current computer system. They would have to go into the “vault” to find the paper copies.
A few hours later, the registrar returned her call. He shared they had been able to find my dad’s transcript without any problems, but when reviewing it, they found something unexpected. Although it was true that he did not have enough credit hours to receive a degree in kinesiology, he did have enough credit hours to receive a degree in general studies. On behalf of people who likely no longer worked at Harding, he said, “We should have caught this a long time ago, and I am very sorry.”
When my dad came home later that day, my mother sat him down to explain what had happened. She was not sure how he would take the news. Would it be cause for celebration or cause for anger or sadness? She relayed the conversation she had with the registrar. It took a moment to register fully. When it did, his eyes filled with tears of gratitude and relief. It is an amazing moment when you have believed something for years that was not true. For years he had believed he did not have what it took to finish school when in reality it had already been done.
The evening before our wedding, Christie and I had a traditional rehearsal dinner. The dinner was hosted in the heart of the Harding campus on the second floor of the Student Center. About halfway through the dinner, Dr. Burks slipped out unnoticed. A few minutes later, he reemerged dressed in his full academic regalia. In one hand, he held a framed diploma.
My dad noticed him walking in, but he did not think it odd and assumed he must have been on his way to or from an event. Dr. Burks walked to the front of the room and began telling the group about a special graduate. It was then that my dad began to put it together. Our rehearsal dinner was also his college graduation. He called my father to the front of the room and presented David Russell Mellor his diploma. I have been witness to my fair share of special moments, but this one was among my favorites.
In an instant, my father had displaced my brother as the first Mellor to have ever earned a college degree. I am confident that my brother could not have been happier. Not only had dad received his degree, but he had also received it in a graduation of one. It is always nice to have someone in the family who graduated first in their class.
WHAT DO YOU NEED TO STOP BELIEVING?
My dad is much better at buying cars today than he was earlier in life, but I think it is safe to say the 1970s represented a dark period in car buying for the Mellor family. We were among a precious few Americans who could say we had owned three different models of the AMC brands—Rambler, Gremlin, and Hornet. With that said, there was one purchase that he got right during that time period. He hit a home run when he brought home a Buick station wagon. Even by the standards of the pre-fuel crisis cars, the Buick Century was huge. It was a little over 19 feet long, and at a width of 6 and a half feet, it provided enough interior space to compete with a school bus. Weighing in at a curb weight of 5,400 lbs., it remains one of the heaviest cars ever produced.
Evidently in the 1970s, if your parents loved you, they would leave you in the car when they went into a store. One day, my mother had to grab a few things at a grocery store and left my brother, our foster sister, and me in the car for a few minutes. What happened next is one of the reasons why parents no longer leave their children in the car when they have to run an errand.
My brother is one of the most creative people I know. I have always admired his work ethic and willingness to learn how to build and repair things. Even when he was in elementary school when an appliance would stop working, he would take it apart, diagnosis the problem, and if possible, fix it. In high school, he learned to work on cars and did his best to restore a 1964 Chevrolet truck and a 1965 Plymouth Valiant convertible. He learned to rebuild the engines, fix the bodywork, and reupholster the interior.
I mention his inquisitive nature and proclivity for all things mechanical because cars during that era were built for utility versus safety. For example, there were three rows of seats, but I do not ever recall using a seat belt. There were no cup holders, but there was a more-than-ample ashtray. Of all the mechanical devices on the car, the one that grabbed my brother’s attention the most was the cigarette lighter.
When mom went into the store, my brother went for the lighter. Borrowing from what I assume to be technology similar to a toaster, once the lighter is activated, it remains depressed until it reaches a certain temperature and then releases. When the lighter was ready, it would make a distinct popping sound. Amazingly, one end of the lighter remains cool enough to hold, while the other end is so hot that it turns the metal coil bright orange.
I am not sure what went through my brother’s mind when he was holding the lighter. He looked at the lighter in his
hand, and then he looked at the vinyl dashboard. Without saying a word, he placed the lighter firmly on the dashboard and held it there. After holding it in place for a moment, it began smoking. He pulled the lighter back to see what had happened. The result was a perfect circle melted into the dashboard.
We were never abused, but I knew this one was going to cost him. He could see the fear in my eyes and I said, “You are dead.” Instead of changing course, he doubled down. He put the warm lighter back in the receptacle and pushed it again. A few moments later, it popped, and he pulled it out. He proceeded to make a straight line of circles across the dashboard.
When mom made it back to the car, my brother was trying to play it cool, but it was obvious that something had happened. I am not sure if it was the toxic smoke or the burnt plastic smell, but she instantly saw the circles. After a moment of silence, she looked at my brother and asked him two questions.
The first question was straightforward. She said, “What were you thinking?” An important lesson in life is recognizing that not every question asked should be answered. My brother chose wisely and did not swing at the pitch. He lowered his head a bit and sat in silence.
Her second question was brilliant. In fact, although the question was not even directed at me, I have remembered it for decades. She looked at him and said in a steady voice, “When you realized what it did…why didn’t you just stop?”
He looked up and said, “I thought if I made a pattern, you wouldn’t notice.” The earnestness in his eyes and the honesty of his response caught her off guard. She looked at him and started laughing. We sat stunned with awkward half-smiles trying to understand what was happening. She loved that car, but not nearly as she loved her son. It was a message that got through loud and clear. Her question however, was brilliant and important. “When you realized what it did…why didn’t you just stop?” What do you need to stop believing?
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