Sandy Covington

"Eulogy Virtues"
 
Howard E. "Sandy" Covington, Jr.
August 10, 2018
 
Some of us gathered recently to remember Bob Sharp. He died August 1 due to complications related to a long-standing vascular condition in his brain. Despite this handicap, which manifested with occasional debilitating but short-term seizures, Bob lived a fruitful and productive life. The large number of family, neighbors, and friends who turned out for Bob’s funeral service was testament to that.
 
The service was a reminder that funerals now are the milestones in our lives. We once used more joyous occasions – weddings, birthdays, college graduations – as important dates that were often accompanied by reunions with old friends and a chance to visit spots we no longer saw with any regularity. They were all the more important for those of us who are spread about this big land. The reception following Bob’s service was at the home of his son, Michael. Sally Suter lived in that same big house when we were attending classes on McDuff Avenue. Hap Stewart told me he thinks Sally now lives in Idaho!
 
Bob Sharp was not the first close friend of my youth whose passing I have honored. Some died way too young. When that happened, we hailed their lives and moved on with our other ceremonies blocking out the inevitable transition that was moving our way. All too soon it has become clear that death is now a familiar companion for a generation that some said seemed to be forever young. 
 
That big hawser that had moored me to Jacksonville for so many years, once so strong in its appearance, has less of a hold these days. As friends have passed I have watched as the strands of that great rope snapped one by one. This may not be so obvious for classmates who enjoy everyday familiarity with former classmates nearby, but for those of us who live some distance away the losses are jarring. As friends depart, our ties are weakened strand by strand. Each was a connection to one whose company we enjoyed, whose achievements we applauded, whose contributions made our lives all the richer. One day there will be nothing left but memories.
 
I am heartened, however, by the strength and grace of those whose lives influenced my own and made life a course of powerful instruction that surely dates back to those days in the early 1960s. Even John Prom’s “Garden Club,” a wonderfully descriptive euphemism for in-school detainees like me who skipped a few classes, had a message later amplified by Woody Allen who he counseled us that “80 percent of life is showing up.”
 
I am grateful to the Reverend Dr. Steve Goyer from Riverside Presbyterian Church for reminding us at Bob Sharp’s service that, as David Brooks has written, the most important record we build is not the one with dates and places of personal achievements that honor the virtues of the marketplace. It is the eulogy virtues that define who we really were. Were we faithful, kind, compassionate, brave, or loyal? Were we capable of love? Were we humble?
 
While we may dread the day when we lose those connections to those places and people who were so much a part of our youth, we can rejoice in the pleasure of the ride we have enjoyed with one another throughout these years.
“My Fellow Americans”

Howard E. “Sandy” Covington, Jr.
September 27, 2017
 
 
It was the middle of June 1966 and the U.S. Army had parked me in a nearly empty barracks at Fort Jackson, S.C., to await orders. I had just finished basic training, had one stripe on my sleeve, and my superiors were talking about sending me to Texas to learn how to string telephone wire. That sounded pretty safe until I got there and heard from one of the trainers just back from Viet Nam that a man hanging atop a telephone pole or up a tree makes a pretty good target when silhouetted against the sky. In the meantime, a first sergeant in South Carolina was having great fun with me as he found chores to occupy my time. (Yes, Virginia, there is grease in a grease trap.)

While I waited my orders, I got to know a couple of other enlisted men who were “in transit,” as they said. Both were from Puerto Rico and as I heard their stories I was astonished at what I learned.

We had one thing in common. None of us wanted to be sitting at Fort Jackson that June. That was about the extent of it, however. Many Americans like me were using their academic standing or a doctor willing to assign bone spurs as a disability to avoid the draft. In the summer of 1965 there had been a rush to marriage chapels as men got hitched hoping that would delay, if not totally defer, induction.

My surprise as I talked with my new friends was that while Puerto Ricans might be Americans just like me, the scales were seriously tilted against them. Both of them were married. They got drafted. Both were fathers. They got drafted. Both were schoolteachers. And they got drafted. They were also pushing thirty and yet there they were wearing army green just like me.

Some months later I thought about these two and their fate. I was fortunate enough to find a stateside berth where I wasn’t going to risk being in harm’s way. With the cards stacked as they were, I am sure they ended up on the other side of the world.

I was revisited by that memory this week as I watched the disaster unfold in the islands. Those people are not strangers. They are Americans. They are our neighbors. They have made sacrifices for this country for years and years. As for me, there is no price too high for the restoration of the homes and jobs and lives now at risk in the islands. Let’s get to it.

“Twilight at Tara”

Howard E. “Sandy” Covington, Jr.

April 26, 2017


There’s nothing like a seven-hour drive to give your mind a chance to wander. My return trip to North Carolina went quickly, however, with recollections of a delightful evening to keep me company.

           

All in all, the dinner capped off a delightful 36 hours in Jacksonville. I got in Saturday before dark and took a swing by the Lee campus where I called my wife from the side steps to let her know I had arrived safely. When she asked what I was doing, I said I had made a stop by an old haunt to say hello to some ghosts.
           
Joanne and Jim Caraway and I ended up going to lunch after church Sunday; so, Joanne, who’s truly amazing, updated me on who’s upright and taking nourishment, and who’s not, which made me all the more thankful that I decided to join in this year. Our tribe is dwindling fast.
           
Sunday evening, I discovered how reminiscing with grey-headed peers can focus your mind. Among other things it makes you damn grateful for modern medicine, a loving spouse, and ditching bad habits, even if you don’t give them up until late in life . . . a small price in order to put a few more miles on the bus. To paraphrase, who knew growing old was so complicated?
           
Riding back, I was listening to Mozart rather than American Graffiti, my accompaniment as I headed south. I considered your question – “Where were you in ’62?” In my view, we were in the twilight at Tara. An era that was fast coming to a close and we were oblivious Scarlett O’Hara’s. Looking back, it all sounds so impossible, even incredible. Just how do you explain to your grandchildren you enjoyed blackface minstrel shows and spent three years deifying a military leader in a separatist movement? And did we really think that huddling under a desk with our hands over our heads would save us from nuclear incineration?
           
So, this past weekend was indeed special. I got a do-over for missing the fun in 2012, had a wonderful time with old friends, and got to reflect on changing times. Who could ask for more?