Herman Floyd Crawford

Almost a century ago airplanes were an eccentric’s toy, trains were the fastest mode of travel, and the automobile was the culmination of human ingenuity for the common man. The neutron had not been discovered, and electronics meant vacuum tubes. A war of unspeakable horrors was only just fading into memory, while the tragedy of the great Depression loomed, and yet another war would come. Into this world was born Herman Floyd Crawford, to Annie May Freible and Floyd N. Crawford, in the quiet little backwater of Driftwood, Texas. He lived a country boy’s dream, fishing in Onion Creek, and occasionally even going to school. His fondness for fried fish was rooted in this time, claiming there was no sweeter fish in the world. Hunting and fishing would be his passion for the rest of his life. Academics…. Not so much. His family moved around south Texas in those years, since Papa Floyd ran hotels. But their roots were in the little town of Dilley, where Dad’s great Uncle Herman owned a ranch. Where fishing was his passion in Driftwood, Uncle Herman engendered a love of hunting. Hunting laws were considered mere ‘guidelines’, as he fondly pointed out a 250 yard shot from a moving vehicle over the Frio River bridge. It was in this time that Dad learned of farms and cattle. A bright child, Herman was in love with anything mechanical and was turning wrenches on Fords and motorcycles before he was out of high school. He dropped out of Pearsall High School in his sophomore year, much to the annoyance of his math teacher. The sins of the father were subsequently visited upon the son when, 30 years later, his youngest son encountered the same teacher, doubly determined that she would get one college student out of the family. As it turned out, he raised three. There was little doubt that Herman, now known as ‘Chink’ to his family, was infected with the wanderlust, and his love of motorcycles and women earned him many near-death experiences. Apparently a similar affliction rubbed off on his younger brother Bob. It was well known in Frio County that ‘nice’ girls stayed well away from the Crawford boys. Dad spent a few years during WWII on fuel tankers in the Gulf of Mexico, then joined the Air Force at the ripe old age of 22 celebrating the first anniversary of the new service. It was in the Air Force that Dad earned the nickname that would stay with him to the end of his days…. He may have been Herman on paper, but he was ‘Tex’ to his friends. Tours followed in Alaska and Washington, always peppered with return trips on the back roads of 1948 American on his beloved Indian motorcycle…. Scaring the hell out poor farmers and countless wildlife. But it was in Minnesota that he met his match, 5’2” of grey-eyed Norwegian student nurse. The story of their courtship is clouded in the mists of time, but pictures of the time indicate that Dad was indeed smitten with his wife, Geraldine Distad. As was the nature of the times, children soon followed, with Barbara and Paul in Minnesota, and Dave in Bermuda. They were all born in late September, proving forever that Dad and Mom REALLY enjoyed New Year’s. Dad moved from the motor pool to more advanced work, first in electronics counter-measures, which was bleeding edge technology during the cold war, and finally to precision measurement, both generally considered to be the most challenging career paths in the Air Force. By all accounts Dad was an excellent technician, as comfortable in the world of electronics as under the hood of an automobile. Of all of the postings Dad had, he loved Edwards AFB the most, as did his family. He fished often, dragging the kids along (and losing much tackle overboard with experimenting hands). Camping was common, with memories of howling winds in a green 59’ Rambler wagon, Yosemite, Sequoia, and always road trips back to Texas. His second favorite spot was under the hood of a car, usually press-ganging one of the kids into handing him wrenches. After Dad left the service in 1970, we settled into San Antonio, 75 miles from his boyhood home. It was there that he really instilled a love of hunting and fishing into the kids, and where he formed friendships that endured for years to come, we hunted, we fished, we swapped out the engine on a 62 mercury meteor, and Dad settled into the salt of the earth existence that he so dearly loved. After 30 years in San Antonio, Mom had finally had enough of the hot Texas summers and longed for pine trees and snow. Dad figured that it was her turn to pick where they went, and Mom chose northern Idaho. Here they came and Dad settled into his routine of forming fast friendships, shooting more and fishing less, but enjoying the beauty of the north. Older now, his work on cars tapered off, but he still loved them, and remained always a devoted Ford man. Dad never pretended to be a leader of men, instead preferring the artistry of the puzzle of mechanics, of well-running machinery, and the deep and abiding friendship of others. Dad was at all times a generous person and forgave readily. With Mom’s passing in 2011, after almost 60 years of marriage, Dad lost a major focus of his life. He suffered a stroke a few months after her passing, and lost much of his speech. He never lost his humor, and loved his food as much as always. But time took its toll. Dad dodged the bullet 5 or 6 times, each time fighting back. I can no more condense 90 years of life into a few short words than I could bring back mom and dad. He was immensely talented, slightly rude, loyal and loving. He was no more, and no less, than a good ol’ country boy that saw more of the world than many of his contemporaries. He was a part of the ‘Greatest Generation’ and was the kind of man that, in his own humble way, helped make America great. He loved his family, loved his friends and lived an interesting life. Now, he has fought the final fight, and passed on to the great hunting ground in the sky, joining his many hunting buddies for cold beer, warm fires, and unhealthy foods. We will all miss him deeply, and will hold him forever in our hearts. Memorial services will be conducted at 11:00am, Saturday, August 27, 2016 in Coffelt’s Funeral Chapel with Pastor Jon Pomeroy from the Sandpoint Church of God officiating.