Commentary by Billy Davis

Published 12:00 am Friday, March 5, 2010

William Jackson Davis, age 2 ½

‘Buck’ meets life full-speed ahead, Dad enjoys keeping up

I’m going to write about my son.

That may not excite you, especially if you have one already. There are approximately 3.32 billion males in the world and all of them are sons of somebody. They all say, and do, funny, sweet things.

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Whatever. You don’t know my boy. He’s the most amazing little boy ever created. Ever.  He’s 27 pounds of Live- Life-To-The-Fullest on two legs. My nickname for him is Buck.

William Jackson Davis was born at 2:30 p.m. on October 16, 2007, at Baptist Hospital in Southaven. He was a small baby, just five pounds and fifteen ounces.

He’s still skinny. His mother has worried about our skinny son, since we’re still putting 18-month pants on a 2 ½- year-old-child. But she has since quit worrying and now attributes a skinny Buck to putting healthy food in front of him. In her Woman Mind, she went from health hoodlum to hero. Overnight.

Jack likes “boo-berries.” A lot. When he was a year old, we had to chase him from the blueberry bushes; he didn’t understand “not ripe.” Blueberries supply the body with superb nutrients, but when Jacks eats a lot, it affects his output. A lot. It’s blue, like a Smurf.

Two years after Jackson’s birth, I have few excuses for postponing some prose. I feel like, and probably look like, a pretty sorry schmuck for taking so long to brag.  

The truth is I’ve started and quit a commentary like this one several times. After just a few words, I would become stumped and quit. I just couldn’t find the words to describe my heart.

There is a second reason, too: when I pull into our driveway, I shed this job like a hot coat.

For most of the morning and all of the afternoon, I search for news and report on it. That’s all I want to do for a living and all I’ve ever wanted to do. At the end of the day, it is just a job. If I fall over dead tomorrow, somebody else can run with it. And will.

But my little Buck has only one Daddy.

“Buck, why is Daddy pushing you on your tractor?”

“’Cause I lub you.”

“And where does love come from?”


Time spent with Jack is like your first hours of a long-planned four-day vacation, when you’re in awe of the beach at sunset or the mountains at daybreak. But there’s that nagging voice that whispers, I’ve got just 72 hours left to enjoy it. Maybe you enjoy your days without such thoughts, but I’m constantly aware of time and mortality.

I wonder sometimes, on my way to lunch, if the logging truck will spill its timber on me, too. That sort of thinking drips with pessimism – it’s a flaw, I know – but it constantly reminds me to re-evaluate what is most important.

I petition the Lord often to give me one more day, one more memory, with my precious little boy.

When I tuck Jack in bed every night, and wrap his little body in his “Cars” blanket, I thank the Lord for such a sweet gift. When I kiss Buck on the head, I’m still praying.

“Daaa-daaa. Chase me, Da-da. Chase me.”

 “Around the couch?”


“And what do I do if I catch you?”


“I get to tickle you?”


“Where do you want me to tickle you?”

“Beary button.”

On Saturdays, Jackson rides to town in the “big tuck” with his daddy. Our first stop is Hardee’s, where he gets the “boo-berry bi-cuit” he’s been asking for since Sunday.

 If we go to Walmart, we stop in the toy aisle so he can see the Little Tikes four-wheeler and the John Deere tractor. I take him out of the basket so he can see the “fishies.”

If he’s not asleep, we will stop at “Tracti-ply” so he can ride in the basket with a toy tractor while his daddy looks at tools. Most days we leave without a toy tractor or a new tool, but there are no complaints from the empty-handed.

When Jackson’s mommy needs time to clean the kitchen, or just to soak in the tub, Daddy and Jack retreat to the workshop. A homemade sign hangs over the entrance proclaiming it “Billy and Buck’s Man Cave.”

There are a hundred different ways for Jackson to get hurt. He’s only discovered four or five, with no blood loss yet. Jack has his own workbench, where he hammers and drills on a wheelbarrow tire and scraps of lumber. Santa gave him a John Deere drill for Christmas, which has gone mostly unused. He prefers to use Daddy’s Dewalt.

That is my Jackson. He was handed to my care from the Creator’s hands, when the fullness of time had come, on October 16, 2007. Jack is perfect, like the sunset and daybreak. I pray that I get to spend a lifetime going to sleep, and waking up, with him in my care.

If I depart, my final thoughts shall be of “boo-berries” and “I lub you, Da-Da.” I love you, too, little Jack. I love you very much.

(Billy Davis is a staff writer for The Panolian)