David Barnard Crawford

'A thousand moments I had taken for granted; mostly because I assumed there would be a thousand more.'

— Morgan Matson

• The loss of a parent resonates differently for everyone. For me, I am saddened by the passing of my father; not that his death leaves a physical void in my life because we had not seen each other in years, but his death marks an end of an era and a final period on a chapter of my life I truly hoped would read differently in the end. My dad and I were estranged the past 5 years; mainly due to his innate narcissistic tendencies, and our shared stubborn nature. We had a uniquely volatile and infinitely complex relationship, which probably makes me the least likely candidate to pen my father's obituary but, as one of the only two people standing over his lifeless body in the viewing room, I lost the coin toss, so here we go…

• My father, David Barnard Crawford, was born to the late James and Barbara Crawford in Savannah, Ga. on November 11th 1947; and was the last surviving member of his sibling group of 3 brothers, Joe, James and Michael and one sister, Carol.

• He was the self-appointed "black sheep" of the family and he worked hard to maintain that familial status until the bitter end. My dad lived life on his terms, even when his terms were self-destructive and detrimental to those left in his wake. He was a force of nature and larger than life. Nothing more. And so much less. There were a lot of things my father was not: a good husband, loyal friend, and devoted father, to name a few. But. Boy, was he funny! He was quick witted and bold in his banter. I resemble those qualities. His humor was a mix of darkness and irony, which I now find ironic. My father was a helluva storyteller. Few of his tales could be fact checked but they always ranked high on the entertainment scale. I will miss his stories and the enthusiasm in which he told them most of all. My father had a brilliant mind. Troubled. But brilliant, nonetheless. He had all the talent and gifting in the world but squandered it on grandiose schemes and an unwavering drive to be the alpha dog. He had no fear and a questionable conscience. He made no apologies for who he was, and I won't either. My father loved the company of beautiful women, his dog(s) and, mostly, himself. He will be missed by his dogs, a handful of the aforementioned women and my sister, Adrienne, of whom he just recently reconciled.

• As I reflect on his passing, I'm regretful.

My dad wasn't around during most of my formative years so I can't reflect much on lessons he taught me in life but the lesson he taught me in death is that no matter how much time you have or think you have; it's never enough. I thought I had time. My dad transitioned from this earthly world without knowing how much I loved him.

That's on me.

• If I can offer any advice to anyone in a complicated relationship with a parent, it's to make the damn call. Pick up the phone and make the damn call. The obligation to mend a relationship is your responsibility. Don't wait for them to reach out because that day may never come and, once they're gone, it's you who'll be left with a vast canyon where a bridge could have been.

And that, my friend, will be on you.

My father is survived by myself, Deanna Crawford Potts, my sister, Adrienne Williams; sons-in-law: James Potts and George Williams; grandchildren: Payton Crawford, Preston Crawford, Jax Potts, Loren Thaxton and Christopher Gordy; and five great-grandchildren.

In lieu of flowers, the daughters have requested donations be made in honor of The Crawford Family to Children's Miracle Network or K9's for Warriors.

"Make allowance for each other's faults and forgive anyone who offends you. Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others."

— Colossians 3:13

• What I wouldn't give to hear him grumble "Deanna Banana" one more time…

Rest in peace, Daddio.

11/11/47-6/28/23