My Hero, My Dad

LeRoy Howard – My Hero, My Dad

On March 5, 1929, in a small wood-framed house beside a sawmill in Eden, Alabama, my grandparents John W. Howard and Mamie Roxanne welcomed their fifth child—a boy. The house had no hospital bed, no white coats, just a cast iron potbelly stove for warmth and a midwife to guide new life into the world. When the midwife asked what to name him, Mamie answered plainly, “His name is Lee Roy.” But the midwife, perhaps out of habit or preference, wrote “LeRoy” on the birth certificate. It was never corrected. From that moment on, every legal document bore the name “LeRoy Howard,” and that curious little quirk—(n) for middle name—followed him his entire life.

There is so much I wish I could tell you about my dad’s early years, but the truth is, I don’t know much. That’s one of my deepest regrets—never sitting down with him long enough, or often enough, just to ask. To listen. To understand the man who raised me. I knew him best in the years after he married my mom, Lynette, and started our family. But before that, he had already lived a remarkable life.

Dad was only ten when World War II broke out, but even as a boy he was stirred by a deep sense of patriotism. Like so many young men of his generation, he couldn’t wait to serve his country. The story in our family was that my grandparents “fudged” his age so he could enlist, and I always assumed he’d joined at seventeen. But digging into records years later, I discovered the truth: my dad was just sixteen and a half when he joined the U.S. Navy on September 17, 1945—barely more than a boy, heading off to basic training in San Diego, California.

During his Navy service, Dad served aboard several ships, including the U.S.S. Thippe, Cortland, Frontier, Frank Knox, Lloyd Thomas, and Keppler. He rose to the rank of Boatswain’s Mate Third Class by 1948 and received the World War II Victory Medal, the China Service Medal, and the Good Conduct Medal. For a kid from Pell City, Alabama, those were no small achievements. He came home a seasoned young man with the world already written into his eyes.

After the Navy, the country was booming. The GI Bill gave returning veterans a path to opportunity, and my dad wasted no time. He began learning sheet metal forming before he even left the service. After discharge, he worked at United States Steel in Fairfield, commuting over 70 miles from Eden, carpooling along old Highway 78. But fate had other plans. In January 1952, a tragic accident near Cook Springs changed everything. A freight truck lost its brakes and crushed the car Dad was riding in. One man died. Dad and two others were critically injured.

He spent three months recovering. When he was well enough, he and his brother Adran opened a small gas station right in front of the sawmill, next door to home. It wasn’t a long-term success—neither of them were especially business-minded, more interested in fast cars and long nights. But it gave them freedom and a little money to enjoy life. Dad spent many of those nights at places like The Robert L Club or Rose Hill Night Club, where music and laughter flowed freely.

It was during this time that he briefly dated a young woman named Theo Stone. Things didn’t click, but one day he came knocking again—this time not for Theo, but for her younger sister, Lynette. That visit changed everything.

Dad went to work for Hayes Aircraft on June 10, 1953. A year later, in late May 1954, he proposed. They were married on June 5, 1954, and life began in earnest. Together, they raised four children—myself, Ronald LeRoy, born in 1955, followed by my sisters: Janet, Lisa, and Dana.

Dad never stopped striving. He worked his way up at Hayes, completing the Modern Management Program in 1960, and earned a supervisor role. In 1967, he began working on the legendary Saturn V project. Hayes had been contracted to build the launch umbilical tower’s swing arms at Cape Canaveral. While Dad didn’t work on the rocket itself, he worked on a full-size mock-up of the booster’s first stage, a task he took great pride in. One of my fondest memories is the day he took me to his workplace. I still remember the massive bay floor, the model of the Saturn V rocket, and the way his office overlooked it all. In that moment, he seemed larger than life.

Later, with Hayes’ target division, Dad traveled widely—even to the White Sands Missile Range, where he met Chuck Yeager more than once. Though he rarely bragged, you could always tell when something meant something to him. That was one of those things.

Away from work, Dad found peace in the quiet of nature. He loved to fish, especially at Lake Eufaula. His tackle box was full, but it was the purple rubber worm he trusted most. And no matter how long it took for a bite, he never lost patience.

He loved numbers—math problems, logic puzzles, strategy. Every night after dinner, he’d sit down and conquer the New York Times crossword puzzle. He had a razor-sharp mind and expected the same drive from us. Education was non-negotiable. He wanted all his kids to go farther than he had, to reach higher, think deeper.

He was also a man of faith, and he lived it—not in a showy way, but steady and sincere. He gave countless hours to his church and to Carpenters for Christ, where he found purpose in both fellowship and labor.

Of course, my dad wasn’t perfect. He stumbled sometimes, like all of us do. But he always found his way back. His faith, his love for family, and his relentless work ethic guided him home each time. He never wavered in his commitment to us—his family. Because of him and my mom, I had a wonderful childhood. I grew up safe, cared for, and loved.

Dad passed away on June 2, 2015. Now, ten years later, with Father’s Day approaching again, I find myself missing him more than ever. I talk to him often—at least in my heart. I thank him daily for the gifts he passed down: his mechanical skill, his sharp logic, and the unshakable sense of responsibility he lived by.

I wish I had taken more time to ask questions, to really know the man behind the tools, the math puzzles, and the quiet strength. There are so many mysteries about his life I’ll never solve. But I do know this:

He was my dad. He was my hero.