Few people understand life without a father, other than those whose dads have passed away. I have lived longer without my father than with him. He dead in April 1980 from a massive heart attack on a ER table at St. Dominic’s Hospital in Jackson, Miss.
He was a giant of man, even though he stood only five-nine and half…and yes, the half was very important to him. He was born in 1930. The Outzen family had hit hard times. Less than decade before his grandfather, John Aloysius Cannon, had been mayor of Greenville, Miss. His father owned a lumber mill in nearby Cleveland, but had died of a heart attack.
His mother sold the mill, moved to Greenville to be near her family, bought a big house and took in boarders to make ends meet. Dad worked most of his childhood to help his mother pay the bills. One job he had was chipping mortar off old bricks so that they could be reused.
They were Roman Catholics in a Southern Baptist town. He grew up on the edge of the white portion of town and many of his childhood friends were black.
The first week of school at St. Rosa of Lima School dad got teased by some older kids. He ran home. For the next two years, he stayed home with his mom. It took a visit from the parish priest to convince her to let him go back to school.
Dad was never the best student, but he became a devote Catholic. When he joined the Air Force and served during the Korean War, he served as the altar boy for daily Mass. He wrote his mother constantly and sent her his paychecks.
When he got out of the service, Dad worked for tractor supply company. He had the rolling inventory and visited the farmers in the fields. Not long after I was born, he was approached by his uncle to join the White Citizen’s Council—the chamber version of the Ku Klux Klan. He was pressured to do it and immediately regretted it, quitting his job and moving to Yazoo City.
There he sold insurance. Eventually he would move back to Greenville and become a partner in one of the most successful independent agencies in the state. He would become the state and later regional president of Independent Agents Association.
Dad taught me that any problem can be tackled–don’t just complain, do something. He taught me to be unafraid in speaking out for the right thing and to believe in myself.
He was asked to chair the Heart Fund in the early 70s. He refused to do it, unless the board agreed to run a campaign that combined the black and white funds. It was the first integrated fundraiser in the Miss. Delta, maybe the state—and it was the most successful.
He was a quiet, behind-the-scenes force on race issues. His African-American childhood friends were leaders, too. They worked together to make Greenville one of the more tolerant towns in the state. When politicians came to the Delta, dad would take them to the services in the black churches.
He also taught me to laugh. He was a master story teller and could captivate a crowd when he spoke. One of my prized possessions is an old, beat up policy folder that has his notes on his favorite jokes. The scribble is hard to read, but it’s his writing.
He was also one of the most positive people I’ve ever known. He made people feel good about themselves. The night he died he was in Jackson for a conference. Instead of going out with his business friends, he took out my high school buddy who was in med school at the time.
At his funeral, dozens stopped me to tell about how Dad was their best friend, about the favors he did for them and about what stories he told. Everyone had a favorite moment.
Today, I remember my dad. I still miss him. And try to live as he wished I would.
If your dad is still alive, please spend some time with him. If he has passed away, share a story about him with your children or with a friend.
Happy Father’s Day!