My father, Chief Herb Cooley, passes away
My dad, the strongest, bravest, and toughest man I ever knew, is gone. That’s a reality I never wanted to face. Like he said of his dad, I thought he would live forever. Four decades with him were not enough. My father knew how deeply I loved and admired him, because God allowed him to live long enough until I had the sense to say what truly mattered. I thank Him every day for that blessing. Our last words to each other were “I love you.” So, I can’t ask for more than that. When I got the call from my sister that our father was entering his final days, Emily, Bella, and I raced to Charleston, praying we would arrive in time. We reached town too late that night and couldn’t see him until the next morning. As I finally peered through his door, he was beaming at the sight of us. I had braced myself for the worst, but Dad was doing what he always did—putting his best foot forward for those he loved. He looked great. That was my dad. Whenever someone told him the end was near, he showed them that Chief Cooley was really in charge. His living until the day after he turned 83 is proof positive of that. Twenty years ago, we nearly lost him because of a nicked artery during open-heart surgery. Ever since, we’ve endured countless scares, yet he always bounced back—astounding the doctors at the Medical University of South Carolina, who gave him such exceptional care over the last few years. My father answered to no one. He was the boss—whether it came to family, career, or his own life. Still, as I sat with him that day, I struggled to put my feelings into words. Finally, I said, “I never told you that you were my hero, but you are.” He just rolled his eyes, sighed, reached over, and patted my hand. That was his way of telling me I had left nothing unsaid. He already knew. Fair enough. As our beloved leader, my father was our protector—his towering strength and endless courage a hedge of security around us all. He learned that from his parents: the eldest son of a World War II veteran and a nurturing seamstress and homemaker, both of whom he adored. His bravery was forged during a four-year stint in the United States Coast Guard and a highly decorated law enforcement career that spanned more than half his life. One of my proudest professional achievements was publishing a book about his 45-year career, which I presented to him as a gift. I have countless wonderful memories of going to work with him on weekends and summers. Being the Chief Deputy’s son came with some pretty cool perks. I got to be in every Christmas parade. The year he became Chief in Pulaski, we even led the parade. I beamed with pride when I handed out “Herb Cooley” pencils to my first-grade class during his Clerk of Court campaign, and even more so when he showed up in uniform to read a Berenstain Bears book to my kindergarten class. Dad was also deeply involved in civic programs, serving as President of the Chamber of Commerce and Chairman of the Transportation and Safety Commission. The laws he helped enact and enforce in our hometown are still saving lives today. That’s why I was so thrilled when he was added to the Civic Monument Wall of Honor in Wytheville in March 2024. More than two dozen of his loved ones, including five generations of family, were there. But the real honor for Dad was that family turnout. He loved and was so proud of all his children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and precious Emery, his great-great-granddaughter. Of all the memories I have of him, my favorites are watching him be “Pop” to my daughter, Bella. I remember my mother scolding him after walking into their bedroom to find him crawling on all fours with Bella riding on his back. He helped care for her during her first two weeks of life, her eyes lighting up at the familiar sound of his footsteps. When he no longer felt well enough to be her horse or stay up until two in the morning watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Bella adapted her games to performing dance routines for Pop or serving him “breakfast” from her imaginary restaurant. At her insistence, these games were played in a room closed off to everyone but the two of them. She loved riding in Pop’s convertible BMW and playing “Dr. Pop,” where he would write a prescription for “one chocolate,” and she would take it to Grandmommy’s pharmacy to be filled. Those memories overflow my heart with joy. My only sadness is that there weren’t enough of them—and that there will be no more. Likewise, there will be no more Saturday breakfasts at Waffle House or weekend Scrabble tournaments—rituals that began as a cure for my loneliness when I wasn’t invited out with friends. Beating Herb Cooley at Scrabble was rare, and he was proud of me the first time I won. After a three-week streak, I asked if he was ready to play again. He replied, “Aren’t your friends coming to take you out tonight?” I’ll miss our trips to the cemeteries of Galax, where he would fill me in on two centuries of family history. If he could have traced our lineage back to Adam—and he nearly did—he would have done so proudly. And no one could cook steak and shrimp like my dad. If I ever had to choose my last meal, it would be one of his steaks. What I will miss most, though, are his witty observations—delivered with a straight face or the trademark raise of a single eyebrow. I’ll miss his pretending to croon like Frank Sinatra and saying to my wife, the true singer of the family, “You’re pretty good. I might let you back me up.” For all…