Harold Hal Hensley, Jr.

Dad came from strong stock Stockwells, Holberts, Storeys, Hensleys. Born in Galveston on December 26, 1918, his mother had survived the great Galveston storm. He was the middle of 3 sons born to Harold Storey Hensley, Sr. and Jane Holbert Hensley. Dad's grandfather, Frank Hensley helped First Presbyterian Church found Beacon Hill Church.

Harold Senior, Pops, was an agricultural engineer in La Feria, Texas who planted many of the tall palm trees you see in the Rio Grande Valley. He was a crop duster and designed chambers to fumigate citrus fruit to enable trade with Mexico. Dad's mom, Mimi, was a poet and artist. Her numerous brothers and sisters built a large family of aunts, uncles and cousins to run around with. Mimi and Pops were also noted for helping transport crippled children from Mexico boarder towns to US hospitals through the programs of the Masonic lodge. This demonstrated to dad the need to care for all peoples.

As a child he was run over by a wagon. When they couldn't stop the mule's progress, all the uncles lifted the wheel over him to minimize any damage. Seemingly invincible, dad at one point decided to be Tarzan, leaping and swinging from tree to tree. Just don't try to grab too big of a branch on a moist day. He survived his 20 foot fall or I wouldn't be here now. He swam in the irrigation canals of the valley, learning a self protective stroke to avoid hitting roots in the murky water. He grew up a tough competitor on the playing field and in the classroom, graduating from La Feria High School as co valedictorian and track and football star. After a year at Edinburg Junior College he transferred to Texas A&M.

The swimming coach recognized true talent when dad beat his swimmers by muscling through the water with his unconventional stroke and tricked him into joining the team until track season. After months of changing muscles and learning the subtleties of swimming he couldn't even get his feet over the high hurdles any more. Coach Adamson thought that was pretty funny. Instead he beat all the seniors by the end of his first year and eventually led his team to the national championship in water polo. He always regretted that they cancelled the Olympics in 1940. That would have been his year.

Dad loved mom most of his life. The story is that he first time they met he hit her with his tricycle. He spent the rest of his life making up for that. When the Hensleys would leave from a visit to San Antonio, Harold Jr. would be the first in line to kiss Ginny goodbye and go to the back of the line behind his brothers for another kiss.

Mom told me that during the depression dates would often consist of buying a girl a coke for a nickel and then trying to squeeze it out of her. I can buy that. Dad has always been a hugger. During college he would hitch hike from Texas A&M to see her whenever he could. He was also pretty busy baby sitting his swimming coach's kids and helping his math and engineering professors when they got stuck on their integral calculus problems.

They married on July 20, 1942 and he went to war in the South Pacific flying photo reconnaissance. Mom worried that he did not have anything to shoot back with but a camera. He used that skill later to document their many travels.

My brother Steve was born September 26, 1947 in San Antonio. Ever the practical parent, dad would come home from work and say- "let's wake him up and play with him". She kept Steve quietly entertained while dad resumed studying for his Masters of Aeronautical Engineering from Princeton. Whenever anybody asked where he went to college, he would exclaim Texas A&M and she would add Princeton.

As a career military family they moved 28 times in the first half of their marriage. I was born in Munich, Germany on January 28, 1952 during the allied occupation. I was suddenly his boy, since mom would say to him: "Mine can walk". Growing up in the '50's I often didn't see enough of him because for much of his career he was off flying B47 bombers with the Strategic Air Command protecting the free world. He practically wrote the book on how to perform mid air refueling- a very tricky, but vital maneuver. After he had watched everybody else mess up he took his crew and performed perfectly, using his intuitive understanding of fluid dynamics and calculus.

We all retired from the Air Force, college, and high school and moved back to San Antonio, Texas in 1969, where mom's parents lived. As usual we church shopped for a while, but kept coming back to First Presbyterian for its music. When Louis Zbinden signed on we did too.

Dad was a man of many names. To avoid confusion, his folks called him Junior. But you have to watch out for nicknames. Once when visiting with all the aunts and uncles at Camp Alzafar, I was startled to hear many of them calling my big strong dad "Juni." Mom called him Hal or Jody or Joe. I nicknamed her tiger to encourage her to be brave and call him bear, I guess for all the hugs he loved to give out.

When our children were born, Mom actually cheated the grandparent naming system. She declared dad's name would be Bapu and hers would be Nani. She was delighted to learn that Bapu was the nickname for Ghandi, meaning little father to those who adored him in India. Never profane, the worst word I heard him utter growing up was Thunder. except one time when he was particularly vexed he exclaimed: "Heckfire". Steve and I had to leave the room so our giggling wouldn't upset him.

Wherever we moved, mom and dad sang in choirs. from Altus, Oklahoma to Abilene, Texas to California, Washington DC and Dayton, Ohio. The folks at Brighton Gardens, where he spent his last years, got the benefit of his ongoing love for singing. He eventually had them singing "The Man on the Flying Trapeze" or "The Tennessee Waltz" with him at dinner on a regular basis. His favorite song was for mom was "The Girl that I Marry". These last few years as he slowed down, he developed his theme song as: "I'm coming, I'm coming, tho' my head is bending low, I hear the gentle voices calling. old slow Joe."

Mom and dad were the love birds of Brighton Gardens. They scandalized the doctor as they smooched on a love seat down the hall and the staff called after him- "It's alright, they're married." Many of the nurses told me they wished somebody looked at them like he did at mom. The ongoing struggle was how to be together enough when she was down stairs in nursing care. because they never wanted to be apart.

Mom dragged him all over the world to every continent except Antarctica. He went because he always longed to be with her. Then 19 months ago, she went where he could not follow, although he desperately wanted to. He faithfully bore his cross of loneliness for her. Where he was, he felt like he was surrounded by a staff of grand-daughters calling him Bapu and giving him lots of hugs. This week, after a lovely Sunday together, he went home to rejoin his beloved Ginny.

He was a warrior, a leader and a loving, gentle man.

Mom was our inspiration. Dad was our hero.

Together they taught us how to live and love.

by Bill Hensley November 2, 2007

Steve Hensley's Remarks for the funeral of his Father, Col. Harold Storey Hensley, Jr. November 2, 2007

From childhood, Dad dreamed of flying. His mother, known to us as Mimi, told me that he said, "I want to fly with God's angels." Dad got to fulfill that dream. During his distinguished military career, as a command pilot he logged over 5000 flying hours. He fought in the Pacific theater in a P-38 flying reconnaissance—meaning he had to fly over enemy territory without a gun. Next he was assigned to help with the clean-up in Germany after the war.

At first, it was an unaccompanied assignment—wives and children had to stay home. I associated the uniform as being part of him. During that time, I every time I saw someone in uniform I asked: "Mommy, is that Daddy?" "No, honey." Once I even saw a black man in uniform and asked if he was Daddy. "No, honey."

As soon as it was safe, he sent for us. When we finally arrived in Germany and saw Dad, my comment was, "Mommy, are we going to ride with the man in 'the man's car'." Dad was devastated.

Growing up, I knew that my folks knew everything.

In fact, I was sure that Dad knew how to do anything. He could fix anything or make anything—especially if it was out of wood.

I learned to love the smell of sawdust, a love that I carry to this day. Now whenever I saw or sand something and make sawdust, I think of Dad.

Dad showed me about life. I remember Dad patiently teaching me to tie my shoes. Somehow, when he tried to teach me how to tie a square knot, I didn't get it. So, he told me to tie a bow and pull the loops out. He taught me to tie ropes together using a Bolin knot and how to tie a Windsor knot in a neck tie. He also taught me to shine my shoes so I would look my best for Church.

He taught me how to run a race, how to throw and catch a ball. I didn't learn the part about throwing and catching very well. He taught me how to swim—two years in a row. I conveniently forgot in between so he would have to teach me again. I guess I wanted time with Dad, and he was very busy.

I remember his praying the Lord's Prayer with me at bedtime. Again, I wanted an excuse to spend time with him. So, I asked him to explain the prayer to me. He carefully explained the meaning of each phrase. The next night I made the same request. He told me he had just explained it to the night before.

"Did you just ask that so that I would spend some personal time with you," he asked.

"Yes, Dad." was all I could muster. I loved that man; I still do. I miss him. Dad was very detail oriented. When I had a big project for school, he would help me—except that he would take over and I finally would get bored with watching and wander off, leaving him to finish it.

He was organized. He made lists: lists of medications, logs of every doctor visit for him and Mom, drawings of his house showing every sprinkler location and every circuit breaker and light bulb—on a computer that was not designed to perform that kind of drawing, but he figured a way to force it to.

Every new technology comes with a thick instruction manual. Most people ignore the manual and fumble through until it works. Dad would digest the manual and condense it to a one page guide.

Dad, despite being a hard driving worker and boss, was a very huggy guy. As he grew older, he became more and more that way. In fact, our whole family is huggy, as a result.

We lived a lot of different places, but he always loved Texas best. I never once heard him complain about the weather being too hot.

In fact, he never complained very much at all. He missed Mom terribly when she died. He said he wished he could crawl in the casket with her. He thought about her constantly, but he did not make everyone else "wallow in his misery", unless someone brought up the subject. Whenever we spoke, I made it a point to say something about Mom, so he could share what was on his heart.

He always loved being outdoors. So, if I wanted to be with him, I had to learn to be outdoors. He showed me to mow, edge and trim the lawn and all the other things about caring for a house. He showed me how to mend things, how to build things, how to follow through on commitments—even when it was not convenient. He showed by example how to demonstrate love to one's wife. In short, he taught me how to be a man.

Once when I was a teenager he asked me if I was too big to kiss. I realized how important it was to him for families to show their love unashamedly. So, I told him I'd never get that big. And I never did. He was very self-disciplined, but he was not ashamed to cry. He wept for his uncle and his dad. He wept for my son Mark when he died. He wept for Mom when she died.

He reminded us that he loved us, but that he wanted to be with her. In fact, the last time I was with him the end of September, when he came to Macon, GA to celebrate my birthday, he said, "I love you; I love you; I love you; but I want to be with Gin. I hope you don't mind my saying that." I said, "No Dad, it's OK to feel that way; God will take you when it's His time." One month later, he finally got his wish. He is now with the woman he loved. I feel sure she was there to meet him, along with Jesus. He was privileged to die the best way a person can die—in his sleep.

Since I have received the Lord Jesus Christ as my savior and Lord, I know that I will go to heaven when I die. It was also important to me that my dad, whom I loved and admired so much, would be with me in eternity. I knew that spiritual things meant a lot to Dad, but he did not talk about them a lot.

Therefore, a few years ago, I talked with him about the gospel or "good news". I talked about God, who is holy and who made us, and keeps us; our sin which keeps us away from God; Jesus who died to pay the price of our sins; and our response—repentance and faith in the finished work of Christ. I asked if He had ever talked to God about all that. He answered that he prays about that every day.

So, I have to believe that he is residing in heaven with Mom and Jesus and all the others who have gone there before. One day I will join him.

HENSLEY

Col. Harold S. Hal Hensley, Jr. U.S. Air Force Ret, born December 26, 1918, died Monday, October 29, 2007.

Hal was a Deacon at First Presbyterian Church. He was a graduate of Texas A&M and received his Masters degree from Princeton. Hal was a national swimming champion, career Air Force Officer and bomber pilot. Known as Bapu gentle father he was a devoted family man.

He was preceded in death by his wife of 64 years, Ginny and their grandson, Mark.

He is survived by his son, Steve and wife, Kathy; and their daughter, Janelle and husband, Chris Holton and her daughter, Anna Kate Holton; and by his son, Bill and his wife, Patrice; their son, Will and daughter, Victoria; cousin, Storey Clamp; and numerous nieces and nephews.