Charles “Charlie” Burrell Mitchell, Jr. first entered earth’s atmosphere in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, during the eye of the infamous 1926 hurricane. Charlie eased out of this life and into God’s arms on February 18, 2019 in Tallahassee, Florida, while peacefully holding his beloved bride’s hand.
In between, he had a wonderful life. His dad decided there was no future in Florida real estate, and moved the family to Oxford, North Carolina. As a little boy in Oxford, Charlie was collectively raised by his neighbors to be an optimistic and gregarious fellow who loved people and the world around him—qualities that only grew as he did. He learned to drive cars when he was 12, and was the go-to driver’s ed for his town. He could drive anything, and he could sell anything he drove.
He wasn’t old enough to enlist in World War II, but did so anyway. He was blown off of one ship but still managed to get assigned to another and participate in much of the brutal naval action throughout the Pacific. He watched the US flag go up at Iwo Jima, and his was the first ship into Nagasaki after the atomic bomb.
Charlie was one of only 6 of his 454 shipmates who did not go into Nagasaki for souvenirs; he’d seen enough death and destruction. As a result, those 6 men avoided radiation poisoning and outlived their shipmates by 20+ years.
His close friend on board the USS Shannon was Bill Frey, whose son, Glenn, often missed the Navy reunions because he was usually touring with his little band called the Eagles.
Charlie was born to be a salesman, so after the war, he used the G.I. Bill to go to the University of North Carolina to get his B.S. in business. UNC gave him more than an education; that’s where he met Kathryn “Polly” Phelps, a beautiful nursing student with a wicked backhand and a terrific smile.
They married in 1947 and stayed madly in love for 72 ½ “long and lovely years”. If they fought, it was behind closed doors, because their sons never saw any evidence of anything but love—with a dash of aggravation from time to time to spice things up. Indeed, Charlie was a lover, not a fighter, and he never met a stranger. Other than one cranky uncle, Charlie seemed to become friends with everyone.
He had a terrific career with International Harvester until Henry Ford and Lee Iacocca lured him away to Detroit, where he became Executive Vice-President in charge of Ford North American truck sales during the mid-1960’s and ‘70’s. He and his family got to experience the advent of mustangs, muscle cars and Motown while in the Motor City.
He and Polly moved to Greenville, South Carolina in 1975 and finally retired in 1981 and moved to Tallahassee. Charlie became a realtor and investor with Mad Dog Design and Construction, Mahan Development Corporation, and GTO, Inc, working with both his sons in various capacities. He also made good money hustling side bets on the golf course.
Charlie’s optimism was legendary—and no charade. Every glass in the entire world was half full to Charlie’s eyes. The man knew he would make every putt. And if he missed, he knew he’d make the next one. That’s just the way he rolled, all his life.
But he was no pie-in-the-sky dreamer. Charlie knew that you could achieve anything if you put your mind to it—and had a plan. “If you can write down your plan, chances are good that it will succeed.” Thank you, Dad.
Charlie and Polly loved playing golf, and Dad was a low handicapper most of his life. His goal was to shoot his age, which he did every year from age 69 until 84, when he finally hung up his niblick and wooden-shafted putter. One of his greatest joys was that day in 1976 when not one but both of his sons beat him for the first time. He was as thrilled as they were.
Charlie never played softball until one night when he was 72 and his sons’ Mad Dog softball team was short a player. He filled in and hit the game winner in the bottom of the last inning. It was the only hit he ever had in his life. Both teams celebrated by carrying him on their shoulders. Even Charlie’s opponents celebrated his successes.
He loved to fish, especially for trout, flounder and specks. And he loved eating fried flounder and hush puppies. He was not a great cook, but for decades he was the master brewer of home-made brandy—the “nectar of the Gods”, as Charlie described it. One night 50 fermenting bottles blew up in the workshop/laundry room. The house smelled like a brewery, and Mom was not pleased.
He loved Mustangs and fast cars, but Polly was too smart to let him have one for long. He played the stock market like a drum until his phone and computer skills faded.
Dad was the post-a-note Romeo. Mom has a collection of post-a-notes he would leave all over the house, behind cupboard doors, in between dishes, etc.—all proclaiming his undying love for his “beloved bride”. He was a sweet romantic all the way to the end.
Above all else, Charlie was a good and compassionate man with a great moral compass. He was an influential mentor who taught his sons to be independent and able to care of themselves, while instilling a sense of responsibility to help others less fortunate and in need. He taught us the joy of compassion and gratitude—lessons for which we are forever in his debt.
Charlie was a devoted husband and father, proud of his wife, sons and their wives, and grateful to have lived over 92 wondrous and amazing years. His family and community were proud of him and feel blessed to have had him as our patriarch.
He lived and loved his life as much as he possibly could, even as his body failed him. His frailty never disguised his sense of humor or full-faced laugh, and he wished everyone a “Happy New Year!” up to the end. He loved nothing so much as to make people smile—and he left a lot of them in his wake.
He loved dogs and cats, and the many pets he, Mom and his sons’ families took into their homes. Charlie said he looked forward to seeing his first dog and best friend, Bruno, again, and to introducing him to Rikki and Roscoe.
His favorite saying was one of Aesop’s fables: “No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.” He loved small acts of kindness, wherever he saw them. And he engaged in them wherever he could.
Charlie’s grand life came in for a soft landing through the compassionate care of Big Bend Hospice. In lieu of flowers or time shares to exotic locations, please consider donations to Big Bend Hospice (www.bigbendhospice.org) or to the Friends of Rikki Endowment, in support of the Tallahassee Memorial Animal Therapy Program (www.tmh.org/animaltherapy ).
Charlie is survived by his beloved wife of 72 ½ years, Kathryn “Polly” Mitchell; Charles “Chuck” and Patty Mitchell, son and daughter-in-law; and John and Tina Mitchell, son and daughter-in-law, all of Tallahassee. We miss him terribly.
Charlie wanted to be cremated, and had a list of places for his ashes to be scattered: in Lake Gitchigoomie, the swamp beside his sons’ homes; by the St. Marks lighthouse; and especially on the 4th hole of the Springdale Country Club, outside Waynesville, N.C. Dad loved the course, but he absolutely hated that hole. He claimed the Devil designed that thing and that the only way he’d ever get in the hole was if his ashes were scattered in it. You got it, Dad.
Services for this great guy will be determined sometime in the future. Please stay tuned to Culley’s Memorial website for details.
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