I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how to begin something like this. And truthfully, I still don’t know. Because how do you sum up the life of the person who was your foundation, your strength, and your guide?”
When I think about my grandfather — I think about words like foundation, center, strength, wisdom, resolve. But a friend said something that may have captured him even better: they called him ‘true as due north on a compass.’ And that’s exactly what he was. No matter the chaos, no matter the storm, he had this calm, collected, humble certainty about him. He was the lighthouse — the anchor. And he didn’t just give that to me — he gave it to all of us.
From an early age, hard work wasn’t just something he believed in — it was who he was. He joined the Air Force, served honorably as both a drill instructor and a survival instructor in some of the most brutal and extreme conditions in the mountains of Reno, Nevada.
Then he came home, finished his degree, started a family, and dedicated over 30 years to another true love in his life: the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department — helping to shape some of the most beautiful state parks in Texas.”
And just in case anyone ever questions how Texas he was — he was the one who officially registered the brand for the State of Texas’s official herd of longhorn cattle. That’s not just commitment — that’s legacy.
And even in retirement, he didn’t slow down. He literally built their dream log cabin on the lake with his bare hands…and with the bare hands of several people here today. I was tried to help as much as I could, but I quickly discovered that scaffolding and I were not compatible.
He was passionate about so many things.
He loved the outdoors. Canoe trips (Monte, Chuck. Chad…those were before my time, but I saw the slides from the trips – he truly cherished those moments).
Hunting at the 160, the Watts place, the 53, little White Oak, in Carthage (where I killed my first deer…that’s a whole other story)…
And of course all state park visits (mom, Cindy…you know what I’m talking about)
These weren’t just hobbies; they were part of who he was. He loved being outside, under the sky, boots in the dirt, but most importantly around the people he loved.
He loved old country music — trips to Nashville with my grandmother for Fan Fair were a highlight every year for so many years during their retirement. Don’t let him fool you — he loved every second of it. And he was a proud card-carrying member of Ray Stevens’s French Fried Far Out Legion. If you know, you know.
And OF COURSE – there was never a day he wasn’t wearing something with T T on it. He was a Red Raider through and through — win, lose, or overtime heartbreak…he loved his Texas Tech.
For all his strength and composure, my grandfather loved to laugh — and maybe more than that, he loved to make you laugh.
I remember being about 10 years old and we had come to Bogata for a visit and he and I were sharing the bed in the guest room at Mamaw’s. It was that bed in the part of the house that had been added on…the room had the coldest linoleum floor and the bed was extraordinarily tall. As kid, you’d almost have to get a running start to jump up on it.
That particular night, he was already in bed when went to get in and as I tried to get under the covers, I could immediately tell something was wrong. Every time I tried to pull the sheet up, it was draw my knees up close to my chest…and when I’d stretch my legs out the sheet would retract. A tug of war ensued as I couldn’t, for the life of me, understand what was happening. I remember him finally looking up from the National Geographic he was reading to ask “what’s the matter with you?!”
“The sheets! There’s something wrong with the sheets!” That was the night I was introduced to the art of the “short sheet.” You take the top sheet and about halfway down the bed, fold it under and then tuck it in at the head of the bed…and then sit back and watch. He loved that.
There was the time my grandmother and I were sitting at the kitchen table late one morning. It had to have been early spring, because I remember it still being pretty cool outside, when in walked my grandfather. The light him in just a way that she and I both could tell something was definitely amiss, but we weren’t sure what it was. After looking him up and down a few times with clearly confused looks on our faces, he says “what?! You two act like you’ve never anyone that just fell in the lake before!”
He had been down at the dock tending his flat-bottomed boat and as he was climbing down the wooden “ladder” the bottom rung (that had rotted completely out) gave way sending him into the water…only the rope that was holding the boat to the dock caught him just behind the knees sending him backwards, as he described it, “doing the backstroke” trying to get his legs off the rope. Fortunately, the water wasn’t very deep and once he cleared himself from the rope he was able to just stand up. That’s when I asked him, “then what did you do?” To which he replied, “I did what anyone else in that situation would have done…I looked around to see if anyone saw me!”
When the grandkids were around, being Granddaddy was a 24/7 job. Sometimes, I believe the only “peace” he got was when he would retreat to the bathroom…but even then it wasn’t guaranteed. We would stand outside the door, knocking, asking “Granddaddy, what are you doing in there?” To which his reply was always the same: “Brushing my teeth!”
That would be a running joke between he and I until this day. Any time I would call and get his answering machine, I would say “oh, I must have caught you brushing your teeth” and he would make the same joke on mine.
“42” was more than just a game in this family, and learning how to play and then being invited to play was a serious right of passage. I remember one game in particular with Granddaddy, Monte, Uncle Marcus, and I (at Uncle Marcus’s house). There’s a point in the game where if you happen to draw the perfect hand, once play starts and you catch the first trick, you can lay all of your dominoes face up and tell the other players “I’ve got the rest of them” and it will end the hand.
I had finally drawn the perfect hand and was about to experience the glory of laying down early…as I turned my dominoes over and said that magic phrase, my grandfather looked over and said, “you better pick all those back up, you don’t have shit.”
42 was serious business. And he was right. I didn’t win that hand.
The last story I’ll share involves his golf game. Right after his retirement he and some of the Methodist Men would play golf multiple times per week, and he got pretty good! Even though he had the weirdest stance when he was teeing off, but he played better than I did most days so what could I say about it?
This one particular day, though, the pastor decided to play with them. It was about the third hole and everyone had tee’d off except my grandfather. Oh, and it’s important to note that they walked the course when they played – they had pull carts with their clubs on them, but walked nonetheless. So thinking everyone had tee’d off, the pastor started walking toward the fairway. My grandfather hollered ahead “hey, hold up, I haven’t hit yet.” The pastor having about made it up to the women’s tee box took a couple steps to his right, out of the way. My grandfather told him he might want to get back, but he felt he was safe.
About that time, my grandfather tees off and hits what golfers like us refer to as a “worm burner” – very low off the ground and with the speed of a missile. I’m not sure exactly how high off the ground it was, but I believe the pastor would have described it as “mid-shin” because that’s exactly where it hit him.
Everyone always stood behind him on the tee box after that.
Those moments are precious — because they remind us that even the strongest among us can be silly, lighthearted, and wonderfully human.
But above all else — above work and passion and hobbies — He loved his family. Every second he could spend with us, he did. He showed up — not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually. He loved hard, and he loved well.
Losing him feels like losing the sun. And I’ll be honest with you — I don’t know how to face the world without him. But I do know this: most people only hear about men like Harold Allums. We got to know him. We got love him. And we got to be loved by him.
He was a man of strength, conviction, compassion, deep purpose, and an unwavering faith in God. And I know — I know — that on Monday afternoon, he was welcomed into eternal peace and paradise with the words, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.”
For those of us left behind, grieving — we have every right to feel the weight of this loss. But we also carry his example forward. His steadiness. His love. His legacy. That’s what we hold onto now.
Even though I don’t have the first clue how to live in this world without him, I know he gave me everything I need to try.
Granddaddy, I love you. I’ll miss you every day. And I promise — I’ll keep looking for due north.
And if you knew him, you know this isn’t “goodbye” – this is “see ya while ago.”
