Ronda Rich

Syndicated Columnist

There is a little boy, age 11, who will, no doubt, fall fitfully to sleep on the eve of Father’s Day. Then, perhaps, he will awaken to a pillow wet with sadness. Many are the people who will spend the day trying valiantly to cheer him up. But in deep sorrow like his, there is no cheer. Only a faint smile, at best, and a quiet “Thank you.”

He isn’t the only small boy who will have no father on the third Sunday of June. There are many. And, there are even more of us, as adults, who will only have recollections of the father that once was.

Each year, Tink and I find ourselves telling stories of previously unshared memories. Tink often refers to his father as “Father” — as is normal for the upper class. In the mountains and the rural South, we all know him as Daddy. Our respect for Daddy was quite often increased when a wrongdoing of ours caused him to unbuckle his belt and pull it through the loops of jeans or work pants.

I guarantee you that my Daddy’s belt only got to the back center loop of his pants before I pleadingly cried for forgiveness and “forgottenness”. I received both.

For those of us blessed with good fathers, we still live by the lessons they taught and the wisdom they imparted.

Two weeks ago, one afternoon, Tink and I were riding through the mountains.

“Have you called Childress back?” he asked about my dear friend, Richard Childress. Tink loves our witty banter.

“No.” He’d called two days earlier and the previous day, sent a text.

I dialed and he immediately answered. I began our teasing.

He replied in a flat voice, not his normal, spirited fun tone, “I’ve come down here to Charlotte, to the hospital.” This, I thought nothing of, as he paused. “Kyle Busch just died.”

It took a moment to process that the driver of the Richard Childress-owned number 8 car was gone at 41 years old.

After catching my breath, I asked, “What happened?”

“We don’t know.” The next morning, knowing Childress was always in his office by 7a.m., sleepily, I called him but, for a rare time, it went to voicemail. I thought, “He’s in an important meeting.”

Later that day, RCR racing announced that Busch’s number 8 car number would be retained by RCR but saved for the day that Brexton Busch would be old enough to drive the NASCAR circuit. My friend, Richard Childress, always does the right thing.

Kyle Busch had never hunted until Childress, a world class hunter, introduced him to it. He was so excited about it that he started taking Brexton on hunting trips.

“Don’t you worry,” Childress promised Brexton at the Charlotte race two days later, “I’ll see to it that you get to hunt all you want.”

Childress had a famous pit crew in the 1980s and 1990s. His gas can man was/is a tall, powerful built guy named Chocolate Myers. A man who is impossible to dislike. When Chocolate was eight years old, his father, Bobby, was killed in a horrific accident at Darlington while driving for Lee Petty. Chocolate had only eight Father’s Days with his dad but he left a gift to Chocolate: he became the most famous crew man in the sport who now has his own national radio show.

As I thought about it over several days that followed, I realized that the man who made the number 8 world famous was also orphaned by a father who, at the time, was employed by RCR. He and Richard Childress were the closest of friends. They raced, fished, and hunted together. They were nothing less than brothers.

Just as I know he will do with Kyle’s son, Brexton, Childress has been the friend and fatherlike figure to his best friend’s son.

Dale Earnhardt would have expected nothing less. Kyle Busch will get the same.

Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of the Stella Bankwell series. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free newsletter.