The Gift of Gratitude!

Get the Point!

The Christmas season was my father's favorite time of year—and it wasn't even close! I'm chuckling now as I remember how once I finally realized that Santa Claus and Charles Hobbs Sr. were one and the same, on Christmas Eve Day, Dad would get up early—dressed to the nines—and would return home later in the evening with bags from all sorts of places with gifts already wrapped to be placed under the tree that my mother, Vivian Hobbs, had already skillfully decorated earlier in the week.

Admittedly, I inherited quite a bit from my old man, including his penchant for last minute shopping, which will commence for me as soon as I finish this blog post 😂.

Charles Sr, circa ‘93, and Charles II, circa ‘23, deep in the Christmas spirit…

But to today's point, each year during Christmastime, I often find myself somewhat melancholy—at least for a spell—as I remember that it's been 23 years since my father and his mother, Arilla Jones Hobbs, passed away within months of each other in the year 2000.

“Nana,” Arilla Hobbs, flanked by her grandsons Chuck and Troy Hobbs circa ‘98. It would be our last Christmas with the family matriarch…

Now, I grew up no stranger to death; I started attending funerals as early as my grandmother Helen’s during my 8th year, and I began carrying caskets as a pallbearer as early as my ace Chris Henry's during my 20th year. And it probably won't surprise readers who respect Hobbs the Historian—but who don't know me personally—that since I was 16 years old, I have adorned the graves of my deceased Williams and Hobbs family members each and every year all by myself! This task is one that I take considerable pride in completing each Christmas Day as my ancestors are dispersed across two vast predominantly Black cemeteries, the aptly named Southside Cemetery on Tallahassee's predominantly Black south side, and Greenwood Cemetery, the oldest Black cemetery founded in the 1800’s that's adjacent to the city's predominantly Black Frenchtown area. 

But despite the shadow of death that has forever silenced so many of my family members (and friends) through the years, I find myself blessed to hear stories about the ones that I never met from my mother, Vivian, while reflecting upon the lives of those that I knew quite well in my solitude. 

Four years ago, right before the Covid pandemic struck, the last patriarch of the Hobbs family, Ronald Eugene Hobbs, passed away at the age of 76 in Miami. With his transition, my late father now has only one of his four siblings still living, my Aunt Lenora Hobbs Cambridge. 

Auntie Lenora and her nephew, “Chuckie,” circa 2019…

When our family moved to Tallahassee, Florida in 1980 due to my father's pending retirement from the Army in 1983, one of the benefits of leaving the "Military Brat" life behind was being able to spend time with ALL of my Williams cousins in Tallahassee and Camilla, Georgia—and all of my Hobbs and Cambridge kin in Miami. In fact, during most years, on the day after Christmas, the Tallahassee Hobbs clan would travel to Miami to spend time with the extended family; food was always aplenty, laughter and loud talking standard, and true to our Hobbs nature, somebody would eventually get cussed out because somebody else brought up some old mess from way back when that still pissed folks off in that very moment 😆. Verily, my ability to shift from an erudite and eloquent purveyor of the King's English—to cuss out master well versed in Ebonics—is due, in large measure, to watching and listening to my Dad’s side of the family lighting each other up on festive occasions 😆. 

But make no mistake, even in the midst of such occasional chaos, there was love, pure love—the kind that as a boy and eventually a man, I felt and fully embraced. 

Such is why four years ago, as the Hobbs and Cambridge clans bade Uncle Ron farewell that June, while the bulk of my kin were enjoying a seemingly endless supply of conch, oxtails, mullet, shrimp, crabs, ribs, "tata" salad and the like while reminiscing at the repast at a neighbor's house on Tyler Street in the heart of Richmond Heights, as the dusk turned to darkness, I broke away for a while to stroll down the street solo...alone with my thoughts...and spent about 30 minutes at the home that my Grandfather Robert Hobbs bought in 1950...the same one that my Dad and Uncle Ronald rebuilt after it was razed during Hurricane Andrew in 1992...the same one my Grandmother Arilla lived in until her death in 2000...the same one that Uncle Ronald lived in until his own death in 2019.

Uncle Ronald Hobbs, circa 1961, during his freshman year at Florida A&M University…

As I stood on the porch that night, I realized that never again would I open that front door to smell Nana's oxtails, pigeon peas, or seven layer cakes; Uncle Ronald would no longer be alternating between discussing Black History and politics (his major at FAMU as well as my own at Morehouse), or telling jokes on the front porch; Aunt Michelle would never be in the living room dancing to Al Greene or Sam Cooke on the record player; Aunt Linnie and my Dad would never fuss about this, that, or the third, and my Dad would never again stand on that porch with a fixed glare while reminding me to "be careful" and to get back at a decent hour—even when I was fully grown and working as a prosecuting attorney in my late 20’s.  

Indeed, that evening, I realized that unlike my favorite movie series, Star Wars, that there would be no Hobbs's in spectral form like Obi Wan Kenobi or Yoda showing up to dispense wisdom to me during tough times. But I also realized that what those dearly departed relatives taught, including their tough reminisces of surviving the Jim Crow era across Florida, were emblazoned deeply within my mind and my heart so that, as Jedi Master Yoda always quipped, I can "pass on what I have learned!" 

Blurry pic of Dad and me during Christmas of ‘90 after I had completed my first semester of college at Morehouse…

Thus, my passion to pass on what they taught in the pages of this blog, in classrooms, lecture halls, and at speaking lecterns whenever invited to dispense wisdom—and so I shall forever. And while there certainly is a sense of longing that I have in not being able to converse with those long gone, I find it crucial to remind my readers wrestling with their own losses on this Christmas Eve to remember that you are here, in this life, at this time, for a purpose—and to remember those who have already transitioned with a smile—not a frown—because if you quiet your mind, you can still hear them guiding and leading you through the vicissitudes of life!

Merry Christmas from Ol' Hobbs and the Hobbservation Point!