Tag Archives: Georgia

Robert Eugene Duncan, November 13, 1933–June 17, 2010

Bob, ca. 1968Mum called Thursday morning to tell me that Uncle Bob had died. On Monday, he was sitting up in the hospice care facility when Aunt Polly returned from a family wedding in Colorado. On Tuesday morning he was unresponsive and they decided to bring him home. Mum spent Tuesday and Wednesday nights with them. On Thursday morning, Mum was holding his shoulders while the hospice caregiver bathed him. He opened his eyes wide and stopped breathing.

How many people felt the air go out of them when they heard that news. Expected perhaps, but not welcome. Death never is. God comfort my Aunt Polly, my cousins Andy, Gene, and Colin, my dad and his sisters and brother. We all feel so sad.

Uncle Bob is most assuredly not sad. He’s been longing to hear his “well done, good and faithful servant” (Matt 25:21) for a while now. “I want to be at home,” he told me several times during those long months in the hospital. When he opened his eyes wide, I’m sure he was taking his first look at the Home of all homes.

He would have recognized it. After all, he and Aunt Polly created a home, not just for their children, but for me and my three sisters, for their many other missionary kid nieces and nephews, for the larger family, for their church families, for just about anybody who needed to feel welcomed. My dad tells the story of Uncle Bob catching heat from Aunt Polly when he even welcomed some hippies to set up their tent on the Duncan front lawn, years before I ever moved in.

For many of those years, Uncle Bob and Aunt Polly’s house was my Grandmother Duncan’s home, too—the family seat. When I was a kid, we would drive to the Fort Square parsonage for holidays and birthdays. Far flung family, returning from Illinois, Georgia, California, France, Peru, Colombia, and beyond, could be found in their house. All through high school and college, their home was the one to which I returned during vacations.

During one of my school breaks, I heard Uncle Bob praise me to my parents, “I’ve never walked into my own kitchen and had anyone ask me what they could get for me.” This might sound self-serving until you know that meeting other people’s needs, predicting and supplying them seamlessly was my childhood “job,” my role in the family, but no one had ever noticed that out loud. Uncle Bob saw it in me. He saw me. And for an adolescent girl, who wouldn’t figure out who she was for another fifteen years, being seen and celebrated was profoundly important. He saw into many of our souls.

Uncle Bob became my second father. There were things he could say to me, which I couldn’t have heard from my own dad. As a young adult in crisis, I craved his voice of wisdom, though it was probably the quality of his listening and his sense of assurance that changed things for me. And not just me. Years after he’d left one church, a troubled parishioner would still call him at home, usually at dinnertime, and pour out her anxieties. He always took that call.

He could listen, but Uncle Bob could speak firmly, too. During Urbana ’97, which we attended together, we met for lunch one day. I told him about a young roommate who was asking me many questions concerning women in ministry, which is still a controversial topic in some churches. Though I myself was in seminary, I’d counseled her cautiously because I didn’t want to get her in trouble with her elders. “It doesn’t sound like that is what she needs to hear right now,” he challenged me.

He was a good preacher, too. He’d trot out his sermon ideas during Saturday night dinners and I enjoyed listening to him weave them together on Sunday morning. He delivered the homily at my wedding seven years ago, driving with Aunt Polly from Ballston Spa in New York even though they had to turn around just hours later so he could be home to deliver the sermon on Sunday morning.

Uncle Bob officiated at many weddings, including my cousin Sandy’s thirty-three years ago. I still remember him complaining to my father, a surgeon: “Everybody thinks they know best. Family at weddings where I’m the minister is like relatives crowded into your operating room, all insisting, “Less blood now. Can’t you cut after the tumor is removed? No. No. We need fifteen clamps, not five.”

Being a preacher was good, but what he really wanted to be was a missionary. At least, he really wanted to experience the world. Before he tried seminary, he tried the armed forces, but they wouldn’t send him overseas because of the metal pin in his leg, the result of a youthful motorcycle accident. He and Aunt Polly even moved to Costa Rica temporarily to learn Spanish during the early ‘90s just to see if this wouldn’t morph into a call to missions.

Still God didn’t send them, so he had to content himself with traveling, which he did avidly. He visited missionaries and missionary family members ever chance he got. He led tours to the Holy Land. He joined a Presbyterian delegation to the church in Cuba. He visited his grand-children in Korea. For a long time, an apt cartoon of him in his preaching robe and hiking pack hung on the basement wall. “After the benediction,” it read, “Polly and I will be leaving for Israel.”

One time he and Polly were lost in Morocco. They’d eaten something that disagreed with them. It was hot and they were out of water. And now they were in danger of missing the ferry back to Spain. Afraid and unable to find anyone who spoke English, they leaned against a wall and prayed. Seconds later an old woman touched him on the arm and motioned for them to follow her, which they did. She led them back to the boat, but when they turned to thank her, she was gone. Years later, he still claimed that God had sent them an angel.

There wasn’t anywhere he wouldn’t go. And if he couldn’t fly, he drove. He loved to drive and he loved cars. On one long trip, we stopped at a gas station for a break. Heading back to the station wagon, he detoured to an old Studebaker. Without a qualm, he pulled open the door and leaned in to inhale. “I just wanted to smell it,” he explained.

There were many drives to and from college and during one, he collected me at my roommate’s house. “Whadya got in here, a dead minister?” my friend’s dad teased as he hoisted my suitcase into Uncle Bob’s car. Then realizing that Uncle Bob was a minister, he blushed and apologized, but Uncle Bob was too busy laughing. Laughter and tears came easily to Uncle Bob.

He enjoyed music and reading, filling his theological shelves with all comers. “Don’t read that commentary,” he exclaimed one day when he found me in his office after Sunday worship. He didn’t think the author’s scholarship was sound, but the book was still on his shelf. Another time, he lent me his favorite book A Severe Mercy by Sheldon Vanauken. “What is it,” I asked? “A love story about a couple who try to build the perfect love between them. It’s a selfish love, though, because its only expression is inward.” In that book Uncle Bob recognized his own ideal as well as the temptation to selfishness curled up inside.

Uncle Bob was unselfish, a good minister. He preached well. He pastored empathetically. He visited the sick constantly. He used to wear a clerical collar when he went to the hospital to keep security and nurses from questioning his motives. This earned him the honorary “Father” because people thought he was a Catholic priest, and some not so honorary glares when people saw him with his beautiful young wife Polly sitting in the front seat of a car together.

During this past year in and out of hospitals, his ministry to his own caregivers continued. Word of his testimony filtered back to me through many sources: Our daughter’s babysitter’s husband played cards with him a couple of times and I heard about his love for Jesus. A woman who knew one of my co-leaders in ministry was married to one of his doctors. I heard about his faithfulness from her. His family and I are grateful to all those who cared for him and for Aunt Polly through this final, hardest sickness.

My sisters and cousins and I cannot properly thank Colin, Gene, and Andy for sharing their parents with us. Uncle Bob and Aunt Polly leaned on God for their apparently endless store of family love, but I know it was sometimes your space that we took up. All of us in the church families that they served have a debt of gratitude to you. Thank you for sharing even your grieving space with us.

The last time I heard Uncle Bob pray, we were together in one of his hospital rooms. I was taking up his grandson’s space, so I gave hugs and turned to Uncle Bob. He held out his hand.

His grip was strong. Before I could offer, he began to pray. He prayed a short blessing on me and my dad, who was in Angola at the time. Then he began to bless God. He asked him to “be with us here, too” and confessed “for we do not know what tomorrow will bring” in a cadence and with a strength that sounded like Uncle Bob in the pulpit. He told God, in a tone that felt instructive to us also, that “we will be careful to offer nothing but thanksgiving” and “we will have nothing but praise on our lips for you.”

And interspersed with his prayers he said, over and over, “and we will rise with the wings of the morning. We look forward to rising with the wings of the morning.”

He was misquoting Psalm 139, applying it to himself as he looked ahead to his new day. It reads, “If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. If I fear, ‘Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,’ even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you” (vv. 9–13).

Even this darkness is as light to our God. Uncle Bob has risen on the wings of the morning. Our turn will come.

written by Dawn Duncan Harrell (Steve’s daughter) on the occasion of Bob’s death, June 19, 2010

Can you add to the story? Please do. Write in the box below. (You may need to click “Leave a Reply” above to make the box, name, and address fields appear.)

  • Do you recall other stories about Bob as an adult? Please tell us.
  • Do you have a Bob preaching story? A visiting Bob story? A Bob’s book story? A Bob traveling story?
  • Can Did you live with Bob as a child while your parents were elsewhere? What stands out to you? Do you have a story of that time to tell?
  • Did Bob perform your wedding ceremony? How did it go? What do you remember about it?

Foolin’ with Old Junk

Carol and Tad, ca. 1961I delight in the fact that he [Tad] liked to work. He liked to work.

When I went to Union Baptist Church, he had an eighteen-wheeler. And an eighteen-wheeler is like a motor home. If you don’t keep it on the road, you’re not going to get your money out of it. When you own an eighteen-wheeler, you have to keep it rolling. He’d make long runs. I’d see him come out from where he lived and I’d see him come back in. He worked. He was a hard-working man. Everything that I can say about him, Carol, he was a worker. He was a worker.

I know the last, I guess maybe the last conversation, I was over there cutting grass at their house. Tad had a mower and he was cutting. I said, “Tad,” I said, “Why don’t you consider getting you a big mower?” If you’ve been over there where they live on Steele Road, it’s a pretty good size yard, isn’t it, Trey? And I think I might have had him talking into getting one.

“But Tad was a guy; he liked to fool with old junk.”

[Trey interjects]: Amen!

Old junk. My son-in-law gave me a lawnmower, a riding lawnmower and it was parked down at the house, Marvin. I didn’t ever use it. I said, “Tad,” I said, “Could you use this old mower?” It cranked up and run good, but it had miles on it. He brought it over. Still over at the house over there. You rode it the other day. He got it out and was going to ride it when they got back. The deck on it wasn’t level. When I saw him, he said, “Ralph, I’ve cut some grass, but I really whacked it up.” You could, you could see it where it was dug in. I said, “Well that’ll heal in time because that grass will grow back.” He was that kind of a guy. He just liked to take something or other that looked like it was wore out and make it go. And most always he was successful. I delight in the fact that he was a workman.

I delight in the fact that he loved his family. He and Carol met on a blind date. Didn’t you?

[Carol]: Yes.

Carol, Gloria, Trey, Tad, ca. 1970You did. He was in the Air Force. You see Tad’s from Massachusetts. That’s where Romney’s from. I don’t want to get into politics. But Carol’s from Pennsylvania. There’s a distance between Pennsylvania and Massachusetts. Anyway they were brought together on a blind date. A spark flew. It turned into a fire. And they got married [ca. 1959]. I believe you told me y’all had been married 48 years?

[Carol]: Fifty-three.

OK. How about that? And in that marriage, the Lord gave them a handsome son and a very pretty daughter and also a son-in-law Chris and a grandson Brett. He delighted in his family.

Tad delighted in the Lord’s work. I never heard him teach a class nor never heard him preach a sermon, but he delighted in joining in and participating. He liked music. I delight in that fact.

But there was something else about Tad Duncan that I can’t pass over and that’s this: I delight in the fact that he was man enough to stand up when he thought something was wrong and speak out. And some of you know what I’m talking about. He wasn’t hard to get along with, but if he didn’t think it was right and going right, down the right path, he would stand up and he would speak out. There were times he had to stand alone. I delight in that.

So, my dear friends, I could go on and say more, but time is passing by.

Ralph Simmons, pastor and friend, speaking at Tad’s memorial service, Wildwood Baptist Church (950 County Line Church Road, Griffin, GA 30223), June 22, 2012, transcription of audio provided by Gloria Boyer (Tad’s daughter)

Can you add to the story? Please do. Write in the box below (You may need to click “Leave a Reply” above to make the box, name, and address fields appear.).

  • Do you recall other stories about Tad as an adult?
  • Can you tell about his experience in the Air Force? When did he join? Why? What did he do? Where did he train? Where did he serve?
  • Can you tell more about Tad and Carol’s wedding? Do you have photos? I guessed they married in 1959? Was that right? Can you provide the exact date?

Outravert, Music Leader, Source of Electricity and Trucks

I know that I have been acquainted with the Duncan family for—I was trying to figure it out—for 28 or 29 years [ca. 1983]. When I pastored Union Baptist Church back in the 80s . . . and where the pastorum and the old church building was located on Jenkinsburg Road, Tad and his family lived just down the road from the church. And that’s how Katie and I got acquainted with Tad and Carol and the kiddos. . . .

I came back to Griffin at the beginning of ’03 . . . And while I was here at Wildwood, I looked out one Sunday and who was there? It was Carol and Tad. And we—I don’t think—we had seen them in about twelve years. But of course I was glad to see them. So was Katie. So when you take our acquaintance and put it together, it equals out to about 28 or 29 years. It’s been a very good relationship.

I never found Tad Duncan to be a man hard to get along with. He was an outgoing person. I’m an introvert. He was an outravert. It’s true. He never met a stranger. He could talk to a sign board. I’ll tell you. That was Tad.

[Woman, perhaps his wife Katie, interjecting:] But it would answer him back, too.

We’d go out sometime with Tad and Carol to have a meal, usually at the Chinese house up here at Belk’s, and he’d have something going with the waitress. That’s the way he was. . . .

While I was here at Wildwood as pastor, we had need of someone to lead us in music. And Brother Milton and Brother Tad, they joined in together and they helped us in leading the music here.

When I get back to myself as just a personal guy from Tad to myself, he was very special. I know we have two ceiling fans hanging in our house that Tad put up. We have two other ceiling fans that Tad put switches in. There’s a light on the front on one of the barns behind our house that Tad wired up. That Chevrolet we drive that’s parked out back here, he put Freon in. And there are other things he did. He probably never thought anything about it.

When that tornado came through last year, my truck trigger, it got damaged. It got damaged bad. It’s still in the hospital. You know what, Guys, I don’t know when he’s going to fix it. But Tad and Carol had just come back from Arizona and they came by to see us. We had some damage. There was other people had a lot more damage than we did. He saw the truck how it was damaged. He said, ‘Ralph, I have a pickup truck at the house.’ He said, ‘I’m going to bring it over here to you. The insurance is paid. It’s got a tag on it. You won’t have to worry at all about it. I want you to take it and keep it and use it.’ So they went back to Arizona and I kept that truck for nearly a year.

And Tad called me one day and said Trey was needing a pickup, and needing a big pickup. It was a big pickup. I said, ‘That’s fine’ because I was going to let Tad have it back—I’d had it for nearly a year—when they came back from Arizona. Trey came back a little bit early and I brought it over to him. Well when he and Carol got here, he insisted to put a trailer hitch on our car. I said, ‘Tad, you don’t have to do that.’

‘Yah, I want to. I feel bad about taking the truck.’

I said, ‘Don’t feel bad about it, man. I had it nearly a year.’ But he went and found a hitch for that automobile that we drive. And he took it over somewhere. He was going to put it on himself, but he ran into somewhat of a problem. (When Tad and Carol came back this past time, I knew something was wrong with my buddy; he had just lost too much weight. I knew. But he just kept going.) So he took that car somewhere and had that thing put on and then he had to wire up the lights.

And you know, when it comes to somebody like that and having a friend like that, I just don’t forget it. I just don’t forget it. I enjoyed being in his company. And there were other things that he did for me in a personal way. So when I come here today in a celebration for Tad Duncan’s life, I can celebrate the fact that he was a great friend of mine. There is a sadness and I miss him already. So does Carol and the family. I know that. But there is something to celebrate when a man lived a life like he did. Not a perfect life. None of us are perfect. But he lived a life.

Ralph Simmons, pastor and friend, speaking at Tad’s memorial service, Wildwood Baptist Church (950 County Line Church Road, Griffin, GA 30223), June 22, 2012, partial transcription, audio provided by Gloria Boyer (Tad’s daughter)

Can you add to the story? Please do. Write in the box below (You may need to click “Leave a Reply” above to make the box, name, and address fields appear.).

  • Did Tad ever helped you out? What do you recall about that incident?
  • Do you remember singing with Tad? What did you sing? What was the occasion?
  • Did he play an instrument? Who taught him to play? Sing?
  • Growing up, did he talk to everyone? Was he an extravert? Give an example.