Monday, December 14, 2015
by Mark Ballard . . .
"Are you on the keep-full list?” I heard Daddy say, holding our home phone receiver to his ear. This happened more times than I can remember all the years I was growing up. “Now, as I told you last time, that’s the only way for you to ensure your propane gas tank is full during the cold, winter months.” Daddy was involved in propane gas from my birth until he took his last breath. He ran Greene’s Propane Gas Co. in Macon, Ga. for many years. To say Daddy had propane gas streaming through his veins would be an understatement.
The frigid, harsh winter months were especially busy in the gas business since many of rural Georgia’s furnaces were fueled by propane gas. Daddy knew every single route his delivery men drove because when he first started with the business that’s exactly what he did. No matter how winding the dirt road was or how far back on the property the tank was actually installed, Daddy amazed everyone with his vivid memory. In some instances he would use large oak trees or family cemeteries as landmarks for new drivers who had lost their way.
He was also familiar with all the customers. He knew how many people lived in most of the houses and many of their names. When the bitter cold winds of winter blew in, Daddy worked late into the night at the office to be sure that everyone would be warm. When he did come home, our home phone never stopped ringing. He heard every excuse from family members being on their death beds to small children with various sicknesses freezing to death because of no gas for heat. Some of the stories were so pitiful that my sister and I begged him to get them some gas. Daddy always knew who was telling the truth.
In every possible way, Daddy did his best to get everyone enough gas to get through the cold spells. “Okay, I’m going to send one of my drivers by your house to put a little gas in your tank but you have to have cash to pay him!” we would hear Daddy firmly but politely say on the phone. “If not, I’m sorry!” Sometimes bills weren’t paid until Old Man Winter reared his icy head. Temperatures in the teens have an amazing way of settling up unpaid bills.
My sister and I hated the winter months. We could never talk with any of our friends because we had to keep our phone line open. Long before cell phones or texting was even thought of, this was the only way to communicate. We begged our parents for our own phone number. Finally, they granted our wish but we had to share the phone. Mother worked out a system so that every other day we could have the phone in our bedroom. When our time was over, we had to unplug the cord from the phone jack, say goodbye, and pass it along. God knows my sister wouldn’t allow me to go into her bedroom to use it! I will never forget. The phone was turquoise.
Although our house was never heated by propane, we always had cylinders under our carport. Daddy used them for all his outside cooking needs. He was a master griller long before they were such stars on television shows. He could fry up some crispy catfish in his propane-fueled fish cooker on any balmy summer afternoon without as much as a second thought. But what I remember most is the hundreds of jars of pear preserves he cooked in a large galvanized pot sitting on flames fueled by propane.
The other day when I was at one of the Christmas markets, I came upon something I’d never seen before. There in a booth was a snowman created out of propane cylinders stacked one atop the other, welded together and painted with a fresh coat of white paint. He made me smile. An industrial-size soup can permanently attached to a larger metal circle and painted black formed his hat. His eyes, nose, and mouth were cut out. Two pieces of rebar magically became his arms. He even had a metal carrot nose painted bright orange, a woolen scarf, and a pipe perched in one side of his mouth.
Seeing him standing there I knew I had to have him. Years and years of memories flooded through my mind like a fast-moving stream. It was as if he had been created just for me.
He now sits at the bottom of the steps at our back door. Every time I pass him, his cheerful face makes me happy. It’s amazing how steel cylinders that contained propane and now fashioned together to make a snowman could also refuel years of wonderful memories of Daddy. These tanks don’t even have to be full to make me warm!
Mark Ballard is a columnist for The Telegraph in Macon, Ga. Contact him at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. or www.mark ballard.com.
"Are you on the keep-full list?” I heard Daddy say, holding our home phone receiver to his ear. This happened more times than I can remember all the years I was growing up. “Now, as I told you last time, that’s the only way for you to ensure your propane gas tank is full during the cold, winter months.” Daddy was involved in propane gas from my birth until he took his last breath. He ran Greene’s Propane Gas Co. in Macon, Ga. for many years. To say Daddy had propane gas streaming through his veins would be an understatement.
The frigid, harsh winter months were especially busy in the gas business since many of rural Georgia’s furnaces were fueled by propane gas. Daddy knew every single route his delivery men drove because when he first started with the business that’s exactly what he did. No matter how winding the dirt road was or how far back on the property the tank was actually installed, Daddy amazed everyone with his vivid memory. In some instances he would use large oak trees or family cemeteries as landmarks for new drivers who had lost their way.
He was also familiar with all the customers. He knew how many people lived in most of the houses and many of their names. When the bitter cold winds of winter blew in, Daddy worked late into the night at the office to be sure that everyone would be warm. When he did come home, our home phone never stopped ringing. He heard every excuse from family members being on their death beds to small children with various sicknesses freezing to death because of no gas for heat. Some of the stories were so pitiful that my sister and I begged him to get them some gas. Daddy always knew who was telling the truth.
In every possible way, Daddy did his best to get everyone enough gas to get through the cold spells. “Okay, I’m going to send one of my drivers by your house to put a little gas in your tank but you have to have cash to pay him!” we would hear Daddy firmly but politely say on the phone. “If not, I’m sorry!” Sometimes bills weren’t paid until Old Man Winter reared his icy head. Temperatures in the teens have an amazing way of settling up unpaid bills.
My sister and I hated the winter months. We could never talk with any of our friends because we had to keep our phone line open. Long before cell phones or texting was even thought of, this was the only way to communicate. We begged our parents for our own phone number. Finally, they granted our wish but we had to share the phone. Mother worked out a system so that every other day we could have the phone in our bedroom. When our time was over, we had to unplug the cord from the phone jack, say goodbye, and pass it along. God knows my sister wouldn’t allow me to go into her bedroom to use it! I will never forget. The phone was turquoise.
Although our house was never heated by propane, we always had cylinders under our carport. Daddy used them for all his outside cooking needs. He was a master griller long before they were such stars on television shows. He could fry up some crispy catfish in his propane-fueled fish cooker on any balmy summer afternoon without as much as a second thought. But what I remember most is the hundreds of jars of pear preserves he cooked in a large galvanized pot sitting on flames fueled by propane.
The other day when I was at one of the Christmas markets, I came upon something I’d never seen before. There in a booth was a snowman created out of propane cylinders stacked one atop the other, welded together and painted with a fresh coat of white paint. He made me smile. An industrial-size soup can permanently attached to a larger metal circle and painted black formed his hat. His eyes, nose, and mouth were cut out. Two pieces of rebar magically became his arms. He even had a metal carrot nose painted bright orange, a woolen scarf, and a pipe perched in one side of his mouth.
Seeing him standing there I knew I had to have him. Years and years of memories flooded through my mind like a fast-moving stream. It was as if he had been created just for me.
He now sits at the bottom of the steps at our back door. Every time I pass him, his cheerful face makes me happy. It’s amazing how steel cylinders that contained propane and now fashioned together to make a snowman could also refuel years of wonderful memories of Daddy. These tanks don’t even have to be full to make me warm!
Mark Ballard is a columnist for The Telegraph in Macon, Ga. Contact him at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. or www.mark ballard.com.
