Remembering Daddy Roy
My name is Evans Ledbetter McGowan. I am the eldest grandchild of Dr. Roy Harrison Ledbetter, my beloved granddaddy.
To his children, he was, “Daddy.” To his grandchildren, he was “Daddy Roy.” To those who knew him well, he was “Doc.” To those who didn’t know him quite so well, he was “Dr. Ledbetter.” And to many more he was simply, “Roy.”
This past week the Ledbetter household has been overwhelmed with delectable food, and what better way to honor an unapologetic Foodaholic. Daddy Roy loved food, especially when it came to Estella’s desserts, topped off with some ice cream, including some of his favorites: lemon custard, chocolate and rum raisin. For Daddy Roy, buttermilk over stale cornbread was only topped by black bottom pie heaped with vanilla ice cream.
Thankfully, Daddy Roy balanced his diet with his fair share of cooking, from pancakes and waffles in the morning, to pies and his famous Amish Friendship bread in the afternoon, sharing with family, friends and neighbors.
Daddy Roy also loved sports, and it’s a good thing, too, because Hellie was constantly reminding him he needed to work off his pleasure for food.
From touring baseball games across the country with his son and grandson in the summer, to road-tripping with his ski buddies in the winter, Daddy Roy loved sports. Whether he was on the sidelines of his grandchild’s soccer game or in the middle of skiing down a glacier in New Zealand, he was the consummate sportsman. The dedication he had to his medical practice was only rivaled by his commitment to third base on the church’s softball team.
Daddy Roy loved being in the outdoors. When my mother and uncles were growing up, he took the whole family out early in the morning to go up the river in the boat to Long John Beach. On the glassy surface of those calm mornings, the kids argued over who got to ski first before Daddy Roy cooked up a hardy breakfast of eggs and bacon on the Coleman stove.
In his latter years, Daddy Roy enjoyed long walks with his wife. As he beheld the sky in wonder of a flying jet or falling sun, Daddy Roy reminded us of God’s Beautiful and Masterful Touch.
Although giving up his driving license was really hard for Daddy Roy, he became an avid neighborhood cyclist, and never missed a chance to take his grandchildren down to Phillips Lake to feed the ducks.
Daddy Roy served his country and his community.
In the Korean War he served in a MASH unit tending to the wounded, and later was quick to point out to his children that his experience was not like the MASH TV show – for there were no Hot Lips Hoolihan, or any woman for that matter, in the camp!
People still remember Daddy Roy serving at the Crippled Children’s Clinic, teaching Sunday School, singing in the choir and cheering on the sidelines of the Ouachita Parish High School games as the team doctor.
Daddy Roy loved his work as a doctor, and was quite good at it, too. He was not only a perfectionist, but expected perfection from his coworkers. Yet in Daddy Roy’s eyes, anything less than success was a failure, and with his will there was always a way. He had a lifelong struggle of making his visions for others a reality.
In addition to the surgical nurses, Hellie and his kids can testify to Daddy Roy’s temper.
Thankfully in his elder years he was more relaxed for his grandchildren!
To us grandchildren, Daddy Roy was somewhat of a mystery. We knew he was a doctor, a sportsman, a gentleman, a scholar. And yet all we really knew about him was that he was our grandfather.
As our grandfather, Daddy Roy was always in the background of our games, from watching us play cards to putting together a puzzle. He would read to us and pick us up when we had fallen. We had only to turn to him to be lifted up, for a game of riding horsy on his athletic legs or doing upside-down somersaults in his strong arms.
Daddy Roy was good with his hands: for mending bones and molding wood, for throwing baseballs or launching his grandchildren into the swimming pool.
While Alzheimer’s Disease robbed Daddy Roy of much of his memory, he never forgot how to be a gentleman. Once Hellie had come to Stony Brook to walk with her beloved husband, only to find him giving a loving shoulder to a tired fellow resident. As Hellie tried to gently pull him away, Roy gestured to the woman asleep on his shoulder, as if to say, “I cannot get up just now. Can’t you see I’m needed?”
And Daddy Roy was needed. He was needed to build go-karts and cabinets, cook pancakes and pies, bind up bones and families. He was needed when people came to the hospital, battered and broken. And he was needed to heal those many deemed unfixable, re-membering their bodies whole again.
And later in life, Daddy Roy needed us. He needed us to guide him through the disappearing alleys of memory lane. He needed us to help him into his chair. He needed our loving touch in a world fast becoming alien to him. And while he could not say our names, he never stopped loving us, and we loved him.
In this way, Daddy Roy reminds me of Shel Silverstein’s, The Giving Tree: He gave and gave until he had no more to give. His grandchildren swung from his strong branches in the living room, crawling up and over his trunk in the surf of a Florida beach. Surgeons requested his assistance in the operating theater, and his wife demanded his discipline with the children. He gave to his county and to his community, his family and his friends with works of his skillful, generous hands: mending bones, carving chests, baking bread, reading books. And as the end drew near, others came to him to find rest and return to childlike faith.
He was born a child, and he passed away a child. In my youth, Daddy Roy held onto my bicycle seat as I learned to ride. In my young adult years, Daddy Roy held onto my arm to rise once more to walk with his loving wife.
To his children, he was, “Daddy.” To his grandchildren, he was “Daddy Roy.” To those who knew him well, he was “Doc.” To those who didn’t know him quite so well, he was “Dr. Ledbetter.” And to many more he was simply, “Roy.”
This past week the Ledbetter household has been overwhelmed with delectable food, and what better way to honor an unapologetic Foodaholic. Daddy Roy loved food, especially when it came to Estella’s desserts, topped off with some ice cream, including some of his favorites: lemon custard, chocolate and rum raisin. For Daddy Roy, buttermilk over stale cornbread was only topped by black bottom pie heaped with vanilla ice cream.
Thankfully, Daddy Roy balanced his diet with his fair share of cooking, from pancakes and waffles in the morning, to pies and his famous Amish Friendship bread in the afternoon, sharing with family, friends and neighbors.
Daddy Roy also loved sports, and it’s a good thing, too, because Hellie was constantly reminding him he needed to work off his pleasure for food.
From touring baseball games across the country with his son and grandson in the summer, to road-tripping with his ski buddies in the winter, Daddy Roy loved sports. Whether he was on the sidelines of his grandchild’s soccer game or in the middle of skiing down a glacier in New Zealand, he was the consummate sportsman. The dedication he had to his medical practice was only rivaled by his commitment to third base on the church’s softball team.
Daddy Roy loved being in the outdoors. When my mother and uncles were growing up, he took the whole family out early in the morning to go up the river in the boat to Long John Beach. On the glassy surface of those calm mornings, the kids argued over who got to ski first before Daddy Roy cooked up a hardy breakfast of eggs and bacon on the Coleman stove.
In his latter years, Daddy Roy enjoyed long walks with his wife. As he beheld the sky in wonder of a flying jet or falling sun, Daddy Roy reminded us of God’s Beautiful and Masterful Touch.
Although giving up his driving license was really hard for Daddy Roy, he became an avid neighborhood cyclist, and never missed a chance to take his grandchildren down to Phillips Lake to feed the ducks.
Daddy Roy served his country and his community.
In the Korean War he served in a MASH unit tending to the wounded, and later was quick to point out to his children that his experience was not like the MASH TV show – for there were no Hot Lips Hoolihan, or any woman for that matter, in the camp!
People still remember Daddy Roy serving at the Crippled Children’s Clinic, teaching Sunday School, singing in the choir and cheering on the sidelines of the Ouachita Parish High School games as the team doctor.
Daddy Roy loved his work as a doctor, and was quite good at it, too. He was not only a perfectionist, but expected perfection from his coworkers. Yet in Daddy Roy’s eyes, anything less than success was a failure, and with his will there was always a way. He had a lifelong struggle of making his visions for others a reality.
In addition to the surgical nurses, Hellie and his kids can testify to Daddy Roy’s temper.
Thankfully in his elder years he was more relaxed for his grandchildren!
To us grandchildren, Daddy Roy was somewhat of a mystery. We knew he was a doctor, a sportsman, a gentleman, a scholar. And yet all we really knew about him was that he was our grandfather.
As our grandfather, Daddy Roy was always in the background of our games, from watching us play cards to putting together a puzzle. He would read to us and pick us up when we had fallen. We had only to turn to him to be lifted up, for a game of riding horsy on his athletic legs or doing upside-down somersaults in his strong arms.
Daddy Roy was good with his hands: for mending bones and molding wood, for throwing baseballs or launching his grandchildren into the swimming pool.
While Alzheimer’s Disease robbed Daddy Roy of much of his memory, he never forgot how to be a gentleman. Once Hellie had come to Stony Brook to walk with her beloved husband, only to find him giving a loving shoulder to a tired fellow resident. As Hellie tried to gently pull him away, Roy gestured to the woman asleep on his shoulder, as if to say, “I cannot get up just now. Can’t you see I’m needed?”
And Daddy Roy was needed. He was needed to build go-karts and cabinets, cook pancakes and pies, bind up bones and families. He was needed when people came to the hospital, battered and broken. And he was needed to heal those many deemed unfixable, re-membering their bodies whole again.
And later in life, Daddy Roy needed us. He needed us to guide him through the disappearing alleys of memory lane. He needed us to help him into his chair. He needed our loving touch in a world fast becoming alien to him. And while he could not say our names, he never stopped loving us, and we loved him.
In this way, Daddy Roy reminds me of Shel Silverstein’s, The Giving Tree: He gave and gave until he had no more to give. His grandchildren swung from his strong branches in the living room, crawling up and over his trunk in the surf of a Florida beach. Surgeons requested his assistance in the operating theater, and his wife demanded his discipline with the children. He gave to his county and to his community, his family and his friends with works of his skillful, generous hands: mending bones, carving chests, baking bread, reading books. And as the end drew near, others came to him to find rest and return to childlike faith.
He was born a child, and he passed away a child. In my youth, Daddy Roy held onto my bicycle seat as I learned to ride. In my young adult years, Daddy Roy held onto my arm to rise once more to walk with his loving wife.
* * *
Today we honor the doctor and the carpenter, the teacher and the student, the father and the grandfather.
We honor you by not riding on motorcycles or in wheelbarrows, if only because you’re no longer here to mend us. We honor your love of nature by taking hikes, your love of sports by throwing catch with our children, your high standards of perfection by our own demands of excellence in completing our work and raising our children.
A son stops his mother’s back pain so that she can walk comfortably again.
A daughter counsels a parishioner locked in grief.
A son carefully carves lines on paper, thoughtfully creating a loving home.
A son rises early to take his son into the wilderness to go fishing for the day.
A grandson travels out west to visit the National Parks in his grandfather’s Tahoe.
A granddaughter dances on the levy in the morning dew.
A grandson holds the door for his grandmother.
A patient gives thanks for the day he was able to walk again.
In all these instances, we see Daddy Roy reflected in what we do, what we say and how we treat others in loving kindness. We re-member him until the day we are with him again.
Our father, our granddaddy, is no longer in our presence, but he is now in the presence of the one true Father in Heaven.
Welcome home, Daddy Roy. We’ll see you soon.
We honor you by not riding on motorcycles or in wheelbarrows, if only because you’re no longer here to mend us. We honor your love of nature by taking hikes, your love of sports by throwing catch with our children, your high standards of perfection by our own demands of excellence in completing our work and raising our children.
A son stops his mother’s back pain so that she can walk comfortably again.
A daughter counsels a parishioner locked in grief.
A son carefully carves lines on paper, thoughtfully creating a loving home.
A son rises early to take his son into the wilderness to go fishing for the day.
A grandson travels out west to visit the National Parks in his grandfather’s Tahoe.
A granddaughter dances on the levy in the morning dew.
A grandson holds the door for his grandmother.
A patient gives thanks for the day he was able to walk again.
In all these instances, we see Daddy Roy reflected in what we do, what we say and how we treat others in loving kindness. We re-member him until the day we are with him again.
Our father, our granddaddy, is no longer in our presence, but he is now in the presence of the one true Father in Heaven.
Welcome home, Daddy Roy. We’ll see you soon.