My father, Clyde E. (Eugene) Harris, went by the name, "Clyde." I am named after his father, Charles Eugene ("Gene") Harris, who grew up on a farm in Harris County, Georgia, and was vigorous until he died in his sleep at age 91. Dad's mother, Daisy (nee Hayes), was from Fernandina Beach, Florida. Judging from the one photograph of her that I have seen, she was an attractive brunette.
Dad spoke almost not at all about his childhood. He had a younger sister, also named Daisy. We inferred enough, and learned enough from Daisy, to know that, after their mother died in the 1918 influenza pandemic, the two children were shunted between relatives. Dad had also been infected by that "Spanish Flu," and I have often wondered if his robust constitution and long life were simply a reflection of the Darwinian selection process.
Encouraged by a high-school teacher who taught Dad in a drafting class, Dad determined that he would become an architect. In 1932, upon graduation at or near-- I'm not sure which-- the top of his class from the architecture school at the University of Florida, he apprenticed in the office of Jacksonville's leading architect, Mellen C. Greeley. It was the nadir of the depression, and there had been overbuilding in Florida during the land boom prior to the great hurricane of 1927; there was little work in that office, and no pay for an apprentice. Dad lived by borrowing five dollars a week from his father and occasionally getting free-lance work.
With some revival in building activity in the mid-1930s, Dad's talent and outgoing personality won him projects, and he opened his own firm in Jacksonville in 1935. During World War II, he closed his office and worked on construction of military facilities, first for the Jacksonville office of the Army Corps of Engineers and then for his father-in-law's civil engineering firm in North Carolina. After the war, he reopened his office and practiced architecture until failing eyesight caused him to retire in 1997. For a few years, my older brother, Bill, joined him in his practice. Altogether, operating a firm of only six to eight people, Dad designed at least 1,100 projects, from sizable buildings to small renovations. Including his work before World War II, he may have executed as many as 1,400 commissions. Although he was best known for his designs of high-end residences and his creative remodeling jobs, he also designed schools, houses of worship, country clubs, post offices, small office buildings, and at least one high-rise apartment building and one manufacturing plant.
Dad loved practicing architecture. Towards the end of his career, he raised his fees and limited his practice to a few high-end residences a year. He thoroughly enjoyed practicing on this limited basis, which kept him in contact with younger members of the Jacksonville community. Once, while he was still working, he told me that he had no interest in retiring, as he saw no advantage in it: "I want to play golf only three days a week, and I do that now!"
Dad liked swimming in the surf, surfcasting, and power boating. He liked deep-sea fishing enough to indulge my passion for that sport by taking our boat, under the expert guidance of our Ponte Vedra summer neighbor, out through the mouth of the St. Johns River and into the Atlantic Ocean. (The St. Johns is the raison d'etre for Jacksonville and one of the few major rivers in the world, along with the Amazon and the Nile, that flows north, away from the equator.) But Dad's sporting passion was for golf.
Dad caddied as a boy, and he began playing golf during World War II. His swing was unorthodox-- he would rise up, then smash down on the ball-- adapted from his years of playing handball. Heavyset, with powerful arms and legs, he became a low handicapper, smiting full shots long distances and using his deft architect's hands to advantage around the greens.
Dad liked playing golf on the Seth Raynor-designed links course at Ponte Vedra Beach. But he was particularly happy playing with his pals at his home course, the Donald Ross-designed Timuquana. Dad had won the assignment of redesigning the clubhouse at the Timuquana Golf Club, and he was particularly proud of the result. At age 50, he was senior golf champion at Timuquana, and on his 72nd birthday, he played there in an effort to shoot his age: He birdied the 18th hole for a round of 71, one under par.
Dad was a great guy. High spirited in his younger years, he was popular and always had a wonderful sense of humor. His father had had an endless supply of off-color jokes on any topic; Dad's favorite jokes tended to be more along lines of political incorrectness. His quick, droll wit punctured pretense without giving offense. In his final years, no longer able to play golf, he may have repeated himself more often when recounting tales of his golfing exploits; some of which, while true, were as unusual as his golf swing.
Although Dad had little interest in buying clothes or personal items other than golf clubs for himself, he enjoyed buying nice things for my mother. He also bought furnishings and paintings for our homes. Beige leather boating shoes with crepe soles were his preferred footwear with a Tuxedo.
Dad did like stylish cars, and he owned a number of fancy automobiles over the years, including a Graham-Paige; a Brewster-bodied Jaguar cabriolet; a four-door, pale yellow, Lincoln Continental convertible, with black leather upholstery and a white top; and an emerald green Chrysler Imperial with gunsight taillights and camel-hair upholstery. He purchased cars rather impulsively: A test drive consisted of ascertaining whether the car had enough headroom to allow him to wear his hat while driving. Once he cut off the top and bottom of the steering wheel of one of his cars, because he fancied the look of the controls in airplane cockpits.
Stoic and unselfish, Dad was a kind person who was unfailingly courteous to those of lower station and generous to those in need. Quietly conservative in his politics, he was a practicing, believing Episcopalian, without religiosity. He spoke in complete sentences, enunciating carefully, at a measured pace, in his deep voice. He wrote well, in clear, economical prose. Mother says, "He never complained: He let me do that!"
Little children delighted Dad, particularly when they were being a little naughty. For older children in that pre-Spock place and era, the prevailing child-rearing wisdom was, "Spare the rod and spoil the child." For him, that philosophy applied to unruly boys. As the youngest child and the only girl, Katie was the apple of his eye; and he unabashedly tried to spoil her with affection and presents. Though not begrudging of praise for his children, he expected people to make the most of their opportunities, and he was never insincere: His rare compliments meant a lot.
Towards the end of his life, physical frailties were taking their toll. He had never heeded notions about healthy living. But his mind and sense of humor remained sharp, and he remained interested in everything from sports to domestic politics and world affairs. His repetition of favorite exploits was no indication of senility: He had retold stories for years. He simply couldn't resist sharing his joy.
Last Friday, at about 3 p.m., Dad got up to change a disc from which he and my mother were listening to the reading of a book. Before he could make it back to his chair, he fell backwards and broke his hip. As I am still on leave from chemotherapy, I was fortunate enough to be able to be at his bedside by Saturday afternoon. By then, he was on heavy pain medication, and the doctors had ascertained that he had pneumonia, which he probably had endured, without complaint, for some time. A combination of atrial fibrillation and the pneumonia had prevented the surgeon from repairing the severe fracture before I arrived.
Facing death, through a fog of pain, fatigue, and medication, Dad remained stoic and calm. He was characteristically cooperative, well spoken, and courteous towards the staff as they performed their procedures on him. He continued smiling in response to my feeble attempts at humor.
The attending physician asked Dad if he needed more pain medication for his hip. Dad replied, "It's OK." The physician said to me, "With him, everything's always OK." The physician then said to Dad, "You're a tough guy, aren't you?" Dad smiled slightly. He was dying as he had lived.
Saturday night, Dad accepted wearing a mask to aid in breathing that many patients cannot tolerate, and by Sunday morning he had rallied enough for the surgery to proceed. As he was wheeled away to the operating room, his grip on my hand was as warm and powerful as ever, and he was still smiling when appropriate.
While we waited for Dad to be returned to the intensive care unit where we waited, Mother noted that it was perfect golf weather, cool and sunny. The surgeon came to us and told us that Dad had done well through the surgery, and Dad was subsequently returned to the intensive care unit. But he never regained consciousness. One of the female nurses, amidst their and our tears, asked Mother the secret to having a 71-year marriage. Mother paused briefly. Then she replied, "A good man."
