What would you like to do?
A young boy never knows quite where to draw the line; the line between reality and make-believe; the line between adventure and danger; life and death... and what child should have to be burdened with such knowledge? One thing is for sure: Little Charles Wade wasn't.
Not yet.
Charles lived in a vivid make-believe world of comic books and treasure hunts on his father's spacious Georgia farm. The woods were dense with towering Georgia oaks. Every shadow was filled with adventure, every day with discovery. He, like his four brothers, was typically gone from dusk to dawn, fishing, climbing, catching snakes or napping under a tortuous Banyan tree, dreaming of Superman or whatever comic book character lay crinkled in his dirty little hands.
Now, there were five Wade kids, the first being the only daughter, Carolyn. She was a good bit older than the boys and was more like a second mother to them. But the brothers... Charles and his brothers were like Huey Dewey and Louie. Still today, stories abound about the solidarity of the Wade boys: You mess with one you mess with them all. Charles was fourth in line. The oldest was William, then George, Charles and Eugene. Charles admired his older brothers. He worshipped their every word, every gesture, every boyish prank. He would take pride in the opportunity to "pass the torch" on to Eugene: Shoe tying 101; How to make a bulldozer out of a crushed tin can; club house construction; cigarette sneaking and why to NOT to pee on an electric fence!
To facilitate the vitality of such a boy's world, the real one surrounding it must be solid. That world, and that of their southern Georgia family were held together by the mighty hands of one man: "G.T." they called him. George Terrell Wade. G.T. was easily a seven footer. Since there were no Big and Tall men's stores in that time (or area), his clothes were always either grotesquely too small or home made. The end of the index finger on his left hand stopped short due to a pulley accident in the barn (he never missed a minute of work). He once lifted the rear end of a '47 Plymouth during a family picnic, and Charles still treasures the broken Louisville slugger baseball bat, laid to waste by his mighty father in a single swipe (the baseball was never found).
Contradictory to G.T.'s physical stature, he was a very kind and gentle man. There was not a soul in Dalton whose tractor had not been tweaked by the gentle giant, and he regularly constructed tree houses, swings and other things for the boys to play in. Though he was intelligent, he had never gone to school. This lack of education was an Achilles heel that would contribute to the demise of the family that so trustingly depended on his protection.
The other contributor was a nameless, faceless, silent man. Charles never saw or heard him. And mind you, it was not what the man did, but HOW HE DID IT. The motive or reason for his actions will never be known, only the effects. I'm sure that neither G.T. nor the man ever actually expected anything to happen.
No one ever does.
The man sold insurance. He rolled in one sunny day and coerced G.T. and Mattie, his wife, Charles' mother, into the living room to talk business, and business they did.
I know what you're thinking: "How could buying a life insurance policy HURT a family?" Well, remember: I said it was not WHAT he did but HOW HE DID IT. Whether or not it was intentional, no one will ever know, but the man sold G.T. not one life insurance policy, but FIVE! The problem was that G.T. was ignorant of the fact that life insurance is not FOR the one it covers, but those that live on. You see, in his benevolence, G.T. "went without" THINKING he was providing for his wife and children. He bought policies on the lives of Carolyn, William, George, Charles and Eugene, but neglected to buy one on his own.
Who would have believed that ten years later, G.T. would be lying in a hospital bed, eaten up with cancer? No man believes, in his heart of hearts, that he is going to die.
No one ever does.
What boy should have to go through watching his mighty seven foot father who could clean lift a Lincoln waste away to a sickly 90 pounds?
Charles Wade did.
G.T. put up a good fight. After an incredible two year bout with the relentless disease, on Sunday, June fourteenth, 1954 6:05 e.s.t., George Terrell "G.T." Wade succumbed to death. The broken family, devastated by medical expenses, was scattered to the wind. Ironically, G.T.'s dogged fight only compounded their devastation. The last thing a family needs at this vulnerable moment is to be separated from each other, but it was impossible for an uneducated woman in the 40's to find work sufficient to provide for four growing boys. So, the farm was sold, the family broken, the boys distributed to family members kind enough to house and feed them. They were still in the same town, even the same street, but things were never quite the same.
Someone once said that what doesn't kill us makes us stronger.
And Charles Wade lived.
And in him rages the spirit of the man they once called "G.T.."
All in all, that nameless faceless man may have done the world of insurance more good than harm. I myself am a jazz drummer and a computer geek. I could care less about insurance. I hate the topic.
But I AM insured.
Oh yes. Because you see, my dad sells insurance. My name is Jeff Wade.
That's right.
And if you want to make sure you're covered the way you need to be covered, you'd do well talking to Charles "Chuck" Wade, my father. If anyone knows his business, it's my dad. He'll make it right. I guarantee it. I have a broken Louisville Slugger baseball bat that SAYS he will!