For Dad, on His 100th Birthday

Hardworking, outgoing, good looking and smart,

My Dad had a soft spot for kids in his heart.

Making friends for my Dad was easy and quick,

With his great friendly smile and his big funny wit.

Impatient, nostalgic, and trying his best

To put food on our table...all work and no rest.

A Jack of all trades and a master of none,
A drive in the car was his idea of fun.

A migrant picker, he toiled in the 30s,
A job that was tiring and sweaty and dirty,

But he was the rapidest picker around
And beat all the pickers the bosses had found.

During World War II he was trained as a cook
He learned it by experience, not through a book.

This led to being a grocery store baker
Till he learned of a job that would pay him much greater.

The oil fields in Oxnard were paying quite well
And he stayed there a year, till his brother-in-law fell

Down the dangerous rig and cut off a limb,
And Dad knew that place was no place for him.

He then learned to work in the woods, for awhile,
Then sold washers and dryers, which wasn’t his style,

So he switched to insurance and went door-to-door,
But instead of succeeding, he just became poor.

A golf course greenskeeper job fell into place

And he taught himself all the rules of the race,

But the golf course might be wiped out before long

By a highway, so he had to be moving along.

So we traveled east, took a short vacation,

Then he started his time with a few service stations.

Many a job, more than just these few mentioned,

Filled up his life and took his attention.

But his true desire was to wander and roam

To the south, west and north, for nowhere was home.

Restless and needing to go to somewhere new

Meant new jobs, new scenery, new houses, new schools.

We kids knew nothing but the nomadic way

And we all went where Dad went, day after day.

That was all long ago and lies in the past,

And the years since then have flown away fast.

In spite of his flaws, he meant only the best.

It’s been so many years since he went to his rest

And today Dad would be 100 years old,

But he wouldn’t have liked that, truth be told.

He would always say he was just thirty-nine

He would like being that age forever just fine.

So, Dad, here’s a poem of my memories of you.

It’s not the best but will have to do

Until I myself walk through that golden door

And all of our family is together once more.

Jimmy Darvin Hollis

December 24, 1920 - February 7, 1997

With love from Jackie