Two fathers, two sons, their lives curiously interwoven in life, death, and modern miracles.
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Glenn Harris died 42 years ago today, on May 27, 1974.
Before you start scratching your head trying to recall just who Glenn Harris was, let me stop you. You didn’t learn about him in school. He wasn’t famous. He was just a 17 year-old kid who would have graduated from Colquitt County High School in Moultrie, Georgia the Saturday after he died.
I watched as they pulled him from the water and laid him on the ground. He was not breathing. He had no pulse.
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Glenn was swimming with friends at Reed Bingham State Park when one of the girls, who could not swim, waded into a restricted area of the lake where the shallow water suddenly dropped to a depth of fifteen feet. With no hesitation and no regard for his own safety, Glenn jumped in to help. The girl, drowning and acting out of fear, grabbed him, pinning his arms to his side. Glenn struggled to free himself and using his foot to force her off, gave her one great final push toward some other people as he was going down. She was pulled out, but Glenn did not come back up.
My dad was the head park ranger at Reed Bingham. I was 15 years old and was riding with my father as he patrolled the park, when he received the call over the radio. We arrived at the scene quickly. It took them several minutes to find Glenn in the deep murky water. I watched as they pulled him from the water and laid him on the ground. He was not breathing. He had no pulse. Glenn died on May 27, 1974.
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For nearly 20 minutes my father alternately gave Glenn mouth-to-mouth and CPR. 20 minutes is a really long time when you’re waiting for a dead boy to show a sign of life. Then, he felt a faint pulse. EMT’s arrived and took over. Glenn’s heart was now beating, but he was not breathing. They were giving him air through a respirator. I kept waiting, expecting him to suddenly sputter the water out and “wake up” like they do in the movies, but that didn’t happen. Glenn was taken to the nearest hospital.
Ironically, by 2005 I was the ranger at Reed Bingham, in my father’s old position at the park where I grew up and where Glenn Harris had drowned and was saved by my father.
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My father was waiting anxiously outside of the emergency room when he noticed another man standing nearby in the hallway. My dad recognized him instantly even though he hadn’t seen him in nearly 40 years. “James!” said my dad as they shook hands. “What are you doing here?” “They’ve got my boy here,” he answered. James Harris was Glenn’s father. He had worked for my dad’s father, my granddaddy, when my dad wasn’t much older than Glenn, long before I was born.
Glenn was transferred to a larger hospital in Macon later that day. He remained in a coma for another two months. Then, one day, to everyone’s surprise, Glenn opened his eyes. He gradually began to improve, but as a result of oxygen deprivation he still had many health issues, one of which is memory loss. Glenn’s family watches over him carefully, but he sometimes slips out and wanders off.
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I had kept up with Glenn’s progress over the years, but I had not actually seen him or his mother, Miss Mamie, since they attended my father’s funeral in 1995. Ironically, by 2005 I was the ranger at Reed Bingham, in my father’s old position at the park where I grew up and where Glenn Harris had drowned and was saved by my father. On December 1st of that year I was involved in a fatal shooting while on duty. Most of the people in the two adjoining counties knew me well enough to know that it was the last thing that I would ever want to be involved in, but there were a few, who knew nothing about me, who immediately jumped to another conclusion.
The man had no coat. He was cold, freezing, bent over and shaking uncontrollably. The mucus from his nostrils had literally frozen on his face. I asked him his name, but he could not speak.
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I was called a racist. Me—who taught my children from the time they could crawl that bigotry, racism, or discrimination in ANY form—against ANY person or group, is wrong. Dealing with such a traumatic event was difficult enough, but that word—racist—sent me to an even lower place. So, at one of the lowest points in my life, when I was basically just trying to go from day to day without having an emotional or mental breakdown, I got in my park truck and just to occupy myself, I drove. I happened upon a man on a dirt road on a very cold December morning, less than a mile from Reed Bingham State Park.
The man had no coat. He was cold, freezing, bent over and shaking uncontrollably. The mucus from his nostrils had literally frozen on his face. I asked him his name, but he could not speak. I radioed for help. A deputy arrived and we put the man in the patrol car to warm up. I looked around and found that he had apparently been sleeping in an old, long-abandoned farm house.
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After he warmed up a bit I tried again. “What is your name?” I asked. He sputtered, “My name is G – G – Gl – Glenn – Glenn Harris.” It took a second for the name to register. Was it the same person? I asked, “Glenn, did you know a man named, C.J. Powell?” He smiled for the first time, causing the dried mucus to crack on his face. “Yes.” he grinned and his eyes lit up, “Mr. C.J. saved my life!”
We contacted his family and it was then that I learned they had been searching for Glenn for three days. He had walked more than 30 miles and ended up less than one mile from my house. The deputy and I took Glenn home where I was able to visit with his family after they were reunited. Sadly, I learned that his mother had died the year before.
I would just add that although he doesn’t understand it—Glenn saved me too.
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I am not a very religious person. I cannot explain what brought Glenn and me together on that cold December morning, but I believe that it was not mere happenstance. There was something more at work that day. I stay in contact with Glenn now. He is 61 years old and we are looking forward to celebrating his next birthday together in August.
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This photo was taken at the historical museum in Tifton, Georgia. That’s me on the left with Glenn. I met him and his sister, Carolyn, there because the museum wanted to record our story. During the interview, Carolyn said, “Glenn was saved twice by the Powell’s, first the father, and then, the son.”
I would just add that although he doesn’t understand it—Glenn saved me too.
A version of this story appeared in C. J.’s Boy, a collection of essays and nonfiction short stories.
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Title Picture: Getty Images
Additional Photo: Author’s own
Outstanding story, Chet. Amazing and inspiring. Glad I took the time to read it.