Eulogy
Eulogy I want to begin by welcoming all of you and thanking you for being here today. It truly means so much to our family to see each of you and to feel the love and support surrounding us as we navigate these rough waters. For those of you who may not know me, my name is Ashley Bishop—also known as my dad’s baby boy. I’ve struggled with writing this speech, because it’s impossible to take 83 years and fit them into a 10-minute eulogy. So instead, I offer you this: if you ever see me or anyone in my family, please ask us about our superhero. We would be honored to share the countless stories we have about him. That’s how I truly feel we can continue to honor the man we love so dearly. I’d like to take just a few minutes to share a little about my dad. I guess I should start at the beginning. My dad was born on December 6, 1942, in Delhi, Louisiana. He was the third of four children—two brothers and one sister. Dad was living the good life until his parents, William and Cliffie Bishop—better known to us as Mamaw and Papaw—decided to bring his sister Carlyn into the picture. Aunt Carlyn has told me many stories over the years, but one stands out the most—mainly because my dad always denied it. She said she was outside playing with one of her girlfriends and Dad kept aggravating her, so they tied him up. They went off to play and completely forgot about him. When their mother came home and found Dad tied up in the front yard, she was not happy. Of course, being the “golden child,” Aunt Carlyn didn’t get in trouble. Another story Aunt Carlyn loved to tell—and one I later witnessed myself—was how much Dad hated taking baths. She said it was always a struggle to get him into the tub, but once he was in, he’d stay there until he fell asleep and wouldn’t come out until their mother beat on the door to wake him up. She even said if he was given the choice between going to the movies or staying home just to avoid taking a bath, he’d choose staying home every time. Dad attended school in Start, Louisiana, and when he wasn’t in school, he spent countless hours farming with his dad. After graduating, he joined the United States Marine Corps in 1961. Dad was always very quiet about his time in the military, but he did share one story with me. He told me that not many people knew this, but he was on a troop carrier. He described climbing a cargo net to reach the top deck of the ship. Helicopters were sitting on the deck, running, ready to take them into Vietnam—what would have been the beginning of the United States’ involvement in the Vietnam War. Before he reached the helicopter, the operation was stopped because President Kennedy had been assassinated. The only other military story I know comes from 1965, when Dad was stationed at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. That’s where he met, as he described her, “the most beautiful blue-eyed woman I had ever seen.” The short version is this: he went to the PX on Camp Geiger looking for lighter fluid. When he couldn’t find it, he went to the front of the store—and that’s where he met her. Sixty years later—four children, six grandchildren, and four great-grandchildren—I think it’s safe to say he knew exactly what he was talking about. Shortly after getting married, Dad left the military. Like many people, he spent some time figuring out his calling. He worked as a police officer, a bus driver, and—something the grandchildren will surely appreciate—a milkman. But none of those quite fit until he started working at Weyerhaeuser Paper Company. He began running bulldozers. One of my favorite memories from that time is when he took me to work with him. If I remember correctly, we were clearing a cut-over plantation. I was on top of the world when he let me sit at the controls—at least until I got the dozer stuck. Dad never said a word. He just got out, dragged the winch through the field, hooked it to a tree, and pulled us out. Apparently, I lost my heavy-equipment license that day, because my dozer-driving career ended right there. Dad later joined the fire crew and drove a hauling unit with a dozer and fire plow on the back. This was before cell phones, and since he was always on call and had to listen to the radio, I remember him running a wire from the cab of the hauling unit into a speaker inside the house. Once again, he made me feel on top of the world when he’d put me in the cab and we’d ride around the block together. One of the jobs Dad seemed most proud of was when he was promoted to a position in Elizabeth City, where he worked on a cattle ranch owned by Weyerhaeuser. After that, he transferred to heavy equipment mechanic, where he worked until a major layoff. In all, he spent 26 years with the company. Even after retiring at 65, people were always stopping by, asking for his mechanical expertise. When Dad wasn’t working, he was usually deep in the woods hunting. He was proud of his hunting dogs and loved spending that time with us kids. One of his proudest moments—one he spoke of often—was when Anthony killed his first two deer in front of his dogs. Eventually, Dad cared less about killing a deer himself; he just wanted to hear those dogs run. I remember getting up before the crack of dawn and heading into the woods with him. As soon as we arrived, Dad would put potted meat, Vienna sausages, and sardines on the dashboard of his truck, where they’d “cook” until lunchtime. He got so mad at me one day when I opened a can of potted meat and dumped it all over the seat of his brand-new truck. Needless to say, I never lived that one down. When I reached my teenage years, Dad traded hunting for fishing—and he loved it. He had always dreamed of owning a bass boat, and that dream came true when he bought a 21-foot Stratos. He was so proud of that boat. We spent countless days fishing—him in the back, me on the front. And heaven forbid you got a bite, because he was guaranteed to hit your bobber with his. It never worked, though. I always outfished him. I’ll admit, I was a little sneaky—every time he got a bite, I’d hit the trolling motor and pretend I didn’t hear him. One of his best fishing days was with my brother Dale, when they went to Pine Ridge and caught some of the biggest brim of their lives. My dad taught me many things—how to work on cars, how to build things, and most importantly, how to correctly hold a flashlight. I am a proud graduate of the Charles Bishop Flashlight Holding College and hold a certificate in flashlight holding. I have a friend who couldn’t attend today because of work, but she can attest to how hard that school was. Let’s just say she attended one day of class and flunked out. But most of all, my dad taught me how to be a man—how to be honest, trustworthy, and strong. Dad had many hobbies, but nothing compared to the joy he got from his grandchildren. If you knew my dad, you knew he was a hard man who didn’t show much emotion. If you told him “I love you,” he’d usually just say, “OK.” But when his grandkids came along, that outer shell started to melt. I can still hear him telling his dirty jokes to you—like the one about the married couple who are now banned from McDonald’s. He would always try to get you to repeat them to other people for him. And thank the good Lord Mom never found out, or we probably would have been here a whole lot sooner. He was so proud of each and every one of you. You all held—and still hold—a very special place in his heart. Never forget that. I want to close by sharing a few phrases I know my family will recognize: “Just half a cup.” “Shut that door.” “Turn that light out.” “Give me a neck hug.” “What’s in that package?” “Kill that fly—or where’s the fly swatter?” “If you want to go get in…”—without ever saying where he was going. He refused to call anyone by their real name, instead giving everyone a nickname. And his favorite of all: “Hey, Shugg.” Once again, from my family, thank you all for your love, your support, and your friendship. It truly means more to us than words can say.
