Passing of a surrogate brother ...

My mom called early this evening to tell me that Dwight Holt had died. It wasn't unexpected, as he had been seriously ill for some time.

It's hard to remember a time when Dwight wasn't part of our lives. If memory serves me correctly (I'll have to check), Dwight first worked with Mom at Mailing Services in Richmond, Va., when I was in elementary school.

That was a long time ago -- more than 40 years.

We moved to 2646 Fleet Avenue (Hermitage Manor Apartments) in 1966 about a year after my mom and dad split up. We were living with another divorcee and her kids, Garland and Janet, who were corresponding ages to me and my sister, Sheree. At some point, Dwight and his wife, Marianne, also moved to Hermitage Manor.

But it wasn't until my family's excursion to hell -- that is, the days of rage in Florida with mom's second husband, Jim Nestor --and our subesequent return to Richmond in 1969 that my own connection to Dwight deepend.

That fall, my Uncle Russell (one of the few true saints in our family) helped Mom, Sheree and I get set up at Hilliard Road Apartments, just down the road from Hermitage Manor. I was trying to earn some money selling Christmas cards door to door (one of the few times I tried to earn an honest buck as a kid) and had made my way to Hermitage Manor where I was knocking on door after door. I came to this one apartment, heard some poodles yapping and, lo' and behold, Marianne answered the door. She was as surprised to see me as I was her. I had forgotten they were living in that complex and told her we had moved back from Florida and gave her the address.

In the meantime, my Aunt Ginna (Saint Russell's wife and my mother's sister, Virginia) gave my mother a black cat that was part persian. She said it was a stray. Within a week, Dwight and Marianne showed up for a visit at our Hilliard Road apartment. When Mom answered the door, the cat was standing nearby. Dwight didn't say, "Hello," "How are you?" or anything of the sort. The first words out of his mouth were, "Where'd you get my damn cat?"

It seems the cat was, in fact, the Holts' "PJ."

Who knows where Ginna picked it up.

Dwight and Marianne were kind enough to let us keep him. PJ remained a member of our family until 1979, moving with us several times around the Richmond area, then to Newport News, then to Tennessee (Elizabethton, Johnson City, Ripshin), until becoming ill and dying in 1979.

During my pre-adolescent and adolescent years, Dwight became something of male role model and a surrogate brother to me. At that time, the Holts had no children, but Mom, the Holts and I fished together, camped together, you name it.

Dwight had an incredible work ethic and I think greatly influenced me in that regard. At one time, he was an accountant with Phillip Morris and was also a district manager in circulation for the Richmond Times-Dispatch. I remember Mom, Marianne, Dwight and I leaving whatever fishing or camping expedition we were on to deliver Sunday editions together -- Mom and I putting them together in the back seat, Dwight driving, and Marianne stuffing the paper boxes.

In late winter 1972, when I was in the 10th grade, I had one of my many freak accidents: I broke my ankle running at school. They had to put a screw in the ankle and I was laid up at home for some time. Part of that time, the Holts let me sleep on the couch in their den.

It's obvious we had grown together as family.

Dwight became one of the few positive male figures in my life. My biological dad was pretty much out of the picture, so the primary family males were my grandfather, Uncle Russell and my Uncle Mike (my biological dad's brother). As for non-family members who were male role models, it was pretty much Dwight and Phil Prater, who died a few years ago, who influenced me. Phil was a bachelor who lived next door to us at Hilliard Road Apartments.

Now, you need to know that in the late 1960s and early 1970s, an adolescent male with a single mom looked at the primary males around him for guidance on certain aspects of male life, but sometimes those primary males needed a little bit of guidance themselves. One of these days I might write something about that ...

(Incidentally, we sometimes called Dwight "Daddy Rabbit," though I have no idea where the name originated. As crazy as we all were in those days, I'm not sure I want to know ...)

I was thinking about Dwight early this morning, knowing that he was close to death. There was something besides his work ethic that touched my life: It was his sense of grace and love for friends and family.

I won't go into details, but one day I let Dwight down. In his own way, he let me know that I had disappointed him ... but he never brought it up again.

It was like Dwight tossed the incident into the deep waters we sometimes fished, never to be reeled in again.

Pure grace.

Even though our lives grew apart over the years, I'm going to miss Daddy Rabbit. I'm thankful I called him on the spur of the moment one recent night to tell him how much he meant to me, how thankful I was that he was around in those early years.

I needed someone like him.

Grace and peace ...