In June of 2017, my grandfather, James McDaniel, passed away, and I had the distinct honor and privilege of speaking at his funeral.
“They don’t make them like they used to,’ you always used to say. That’s why everything you’ve ever built is still standing here today.”
These are the first words of a song entitled “They Don’t Make Em Like They Used To.” by singer/songwriter Will Hoge. The first time I heard those words, I immediately thought of James Howard McDaniel. Jesus called Big Jim home last Wednesday. Paw–Paw, of course, screened the call and made Jesus leave a message on the answering machine before he picked up.
My Paw–Paw was truly one of a kind; his routines and his unique quirks set him apart from everyone else on this planet: the way he talked when he said, “Hey!” to anyone… the way his eyes sparkled every time he laughed… the way he watched multiple televisions with the volume turned down so low you couldn’t really hear anything…
A few weeks ago, I made toast for my son Davis one morning, and not wanting to get the counter dirty, I laid a paper towel down on the counter for the toast. After I packed Davis’ toast in his bag, I looked back at the counter, and I had to stop and laugh as I realized how I have picked up on more of Paw–Paw‘s quirks than I may care to admit.
“Leather skin, tough as nails, promises never failed, solid as the gospel truth… They don’t make ’em like they used to.”
Big Jim was loved by his family, his friends, his coworkers, and his community, and I believe that’s due in part to the fact that he was one of the most genuine people I have ever known. If he didn’t like something you did, he pulled no punches, and he told you exactly how he felt. I believe the only filter Paw–Paw ever used was on his coffee pot, because everyone knows the man just said exactly what he was thinking. Sometimes I would internally cringe, but looking back now, I just smile because that’s who he was. He was the same man on Sunday morning and Saturday night.
“Story after story of all your faded glory is all I ever hope to live up to. Know as I get older, I’m standing on your shoulders trying to be just like you. But they don’t make ’em like they used to”
This past May, Paw–Paw turned 84 years old. I knew that our time with him was quickly fading, and the only regret I had in my relationship with him is that I had never told Paw–Paw exactly how I felt about him. The morning of his birthday, I sat down and wrote a letter to him. It was the absolute hardest thing I have ever written. I wasn’t sure how I could ever summarize 36 years into a few paragraphs, but I did my best, and I would like to share that letter with you today.
Hey, Paw-Paw. It’s Josh.
I have written a lot of words in my lifetime.
I have written essays, research papers, poems, songs, but none have been as hard as this letter to you.
I have been meaning to write it for quite sometime, but each time I sat down, my emotions would overtake me. The words were there; my mind was ready, but my heart was not quite there.
Today, on your birthday, I knew it was time.
I would be lying if I said there weren’t tears already streaming down my face; this is hard.
How can I possibly write words to you, one of my heroes, and not be emotional?
My biggest fear is that my pen will not do the impact you have had on me and this world.
But I will try…
You are the strongest person I know.
You always have been.
As a kid, I watched you fix everything. You had a tool for every job possible, and you knew exactly where each one was stored. I watched you change the oil in my parents’ vehicles countless times. When I got older and began to drive, I looked forward to the oil changes on my Mustang all throughout high school. I could not possibly recall the details of any of conversations we had every 3000 miles, but I will forever cherish the time we spent around an open hood.
Those old homemade ramps were next to the basketball court you made me, and that old hoop helped make me. You would always tell me how I needed to learn a hook shot.
Turns out you were right.
When you’re a 6’1″ center with a vertical in the teens, the hook shot becomes your go-to move on the post.
Your love of sports was never lost on me.
Football… basketball… baseball…
It did not matter; we played and watched them all.
You never told me a lot of stories, but the memories you shared with just added to your heroism in my eyes.
You told me of how after football practice, you would fold your football helmet, put it in your back pocket, and go home to work on the farm.
Your favorite bowl memory was listening to Ohio State beat Cal in the 1950 Rose Bowl on the radio in the barn on New Year’s Day as you milked the cows.
You once rode all the way to Colorado on a hunting trip in the back of your friend’s truck.
But it was not all that long ago, that you shared a story with me that I will treasure.
We were riding back from Jasper, and you told me of how the Army brought you to Fort Polk. You went with a buddy to a church, and there you met a girl. You knew right away that she was the one, so you wasted very little time marrying her. You told me of how much you loved her, and you told me of how much you missed her.
I know the feeling all too well.
I miss her, too.
Not a day goes by that I do not think of her: her laugh, her smile, her encouraging spirit.
When we lost her, I thought I would lose you, too. But you became even more present. You took me on my first flight. We went fishing. We went to baseball games. You cheered from the stands every time I pulled those red and blue jerseys on. You were there for my graduations, and you looked sharp in your tuxedo on the day I said, “I do.”
I cannot imagine growing up without you.
You are my hero, and every day I hope that I make you proud.
You have given me much, and you have entrusted me with the most precious gift a grandfather can pass down: your last name.
Please know it is not something I take lightly, and it is a tremendous source of pride for me.
There is a little boy with big blue eyes who looks a lot like your first grandson; he carries it as well. One day he will know of the responsibility that comes with his name.
He will know of his legacy: your legacy.
I wish I would have told you these words sooner, and I hope that you can understand them now.
I love you.
As you lie in your bed, please know that this is not how I will remember you.
I will remember you in your garden.
I will remember you climbing radio towers long after you should have retired.
I will remember how cool it was the first time I heard one of your friends call you “Mac.”
That is what my friends call me, too.
“They don’t make ’em like they used to. No, they don’t make ’em like they used to.”
Thank you all for being here today to celebrate the life of my hero, James Howard McDaniel. There will never be another one like him.
In closing, I would like to share a quote with you that Paw–Paw shared with me throughout my life for as long as I can possibly recall, “Remember, only you can prevent forest fires.”
Four Six 3 
So lovely, touching, and heartfelt. God really blessed you and your “Paw Paw”.
Jean Simmons (coach Simmons’ wife)
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