Jack Stallard

JOHNSON CITY, Tenn. — I visited the graves of two of my heroes a few weeks back while vacationing here in the beautiful mountains of East Tennessee.

I’ve written about my dad, Kyle Gordon Stallard, and my big brother, Randy Gordon Stallard, several times in this space over the years, so many of you are familiar with them.

I’ve always been proud of the way they lived — both serving our country as members of the U.S. Navy — and heartbroken by the fact they died so young. Dad was 62. Randy made it to 58.

My dad died back in 1991. I visit his grave each time I head back to Tennessee for vacation, but it had been six years since our last trip. We lost Randy almost three years ago. The headstone at his grave is relatively new, and it was the first time I had seen it.

Dad is buried in a beautiful cemetery just off a busy road between where he grew up, Erwin, and the “big town” of Johnson City. His grave is deep in the back of the cemetery between his baby brother and his beloved mother.

I know dad would love the location since he loved Uncle Johnny and treasured his mama, but he’d also like it because it’s away from traffic.

Dad loved people, but he also cherished his peace and quiet.

Randy is buried in a small cemetery at the bottom of a hill below my sister Melissa’s house. On my short visit there, I sat most mornings and evenings drinking coffee on Melissa’s porch, and I could see Randy’s grave from there.

A couple of those mornings, a mama deer and her baby raced across the front yard and paused near Randy’s grave before disappearing into the nearby woods.

That didn’t surprise me.

Randy’s love of critters went way back. He was the original “catch and release” angler, once letting a trophy bass off a stringer because the fish evidently gave him a pitiful look.

Shortly before he died, a small alligator showed up at the pond close to Randy’s house on the outskirts of Lufkin. Instead of running it off or having it removed, Randy fed it hot dogs and named it Fluffy.

Dad and Randy shared the same middle name (my little redheaded mama insisted on it), and they shared a love of people and service to our country.

Dad lied about his age and joined the Navy when he was 15. He served on a destroyer escort in the Pacific near the end of World War II, and was later severely injured when a bomb hit his ship during the Korean War.

Randy served aboard the aircraft carrier USS Nimitz and was later a police officer for 28 years in Lufkin. He retired from there, but took a job as school resource officer in nearby Pollok Central and quickly won over the students and teachers there before dying just a few months into the job.

While in Tennessee, I also visited a memorial to all of the men and women from Unicoi County (pronounced You-Na-Coy) who served in the armed forces. I’ve seen it several times now, but each time I find my dad’s name on the wall my heart swells with pride.

Randy’s name is on a peace officers memorial down in Angelina County. I haven’t seen it in person yet, but will correct that soon.

I miss my dad and my brother, and I’ll never understand why they both had such a short time on this earth when they were still needed in such a big way down here.

They were needed because they believed the good people outnumbered the bad people in this world, and the bad guys only won if the good guys let them.

We all struggle with that concept occasionally, but on those days when it’s hard to believe good people still exist, I urge you to do what my dad and my brother did.

If you can’t find one, be one.