His surname was Reeves, and he lived with my paternal grandparents from the depression until his death.  Times were hard, and, with parents struggling to support the large family, it was decided this son should strike out on his own.

 In the process of time, Reeves met my grandfather, Snode, and told him he needed a job.  No job was readily available, but it was eventually decided that Reeves would work on the farm and sleep in the pack house.  For the uninitiated, a pack house is a type of barn used for handling tobacco.

His given name was Matthew.  Not that he was ever called that.  As a matter of fact, he was not even called “Matt,” rather, he was known as “Math.”  Due to long association, some referred to him not as Reeves but as Math Paramore.

Those were heartbreaking times.  Segregation was enforced and discrimination was real.  It is not my intent to judge in this missive, but the most enlightened at the time would not be seen so today.  I once heard someone speculate that Math was the only African American buried in the Greenville City Cemetery (at the time) though I do not know if this is true.

I have been told that Math named my father.  Well, in a way.  You see, my father and I share a name, but Math called my dad “Jack.”  The name wore well.

As a child and young person, I would see Math from time to time.  He lived in a small house across the dirt path from my grandparents’ home during these years and more.  Math called me “Little Jack.”  I know his house had two rooms though there could have been more.  Math spoke with a low voice, a bit raspy and soft, but I could always understand him.  Memory fades with the waning of years.

Recently, my aunt told me that Math was very strong.  He had the type of strength that hard work breeds.  It’s what people sometimes call “country strong.”  My father said that he and the other children regarded Math as a “superhero” (his word).

There was a mule on the farm that was hard to control.  Mules can be that way.  Even I know that.

One day, when dad was eight years old, he was inside a tobacco wagon attached to the unruly hybrid.  A tobacco wagon is used to transport the crop from the field to the barn.  It would have sides of material that could be lowered and wheels that could be tires or wooden discs.

Suddenly, the headstrong pack animal bolted and raced away with my father in tow.  It was feared that dad would be injured or perhaps killed if he fell from the cart.  But Math knew what to do.

Racing to the caravan, Math took an angle, got in front of the mule, halted the beast and forced him to his knees saving the rattled young Paramore from harm.

Dad told me that the mule was always a bit cantankerous and no one really wanted to work him, but Math could always keep him in line.  The mule knew who his master was.

Job said a donkey is not born tame.  It must be broken.

 May God bring us to our knees so that we will know that He is our Master.