First published: April 19, 2000
Let me tell you about Roger Bisher, the athlete. It won't take long because the career was short.
He was well-built for a kid. Looked like an athlete. Could run like a deer. He had a coachable attitude. So the Pop Warner coach at Chastain Park talked him into coming out for the team. His brother Jamie was already a player. Roger looked like a natural. He pitched in with moderate enthusiasm, then discovered that the coach knew all about machinery, so while the others practiced, Roger talked machinery with the coach, who enjoyed talking machinery with Roger, and football got lost. End of career.
His next career led to machines and science and stuff. He had a little workshop under the house out of which came some of the strangest sounds you ever heard. Sometimes it was crackling electricity. Sometimes it was an explosion, nothing major, just the budding scientist learning by trial and error. Once, he freeze-dried a dead bird he had found and won a prize in a citywide science contest. The paper printed his name wrong, Thomas Bisher. Made no difference to him. He knew who it was.
On our street, he was everybody's repairman. TV, refrigeration, air-conditioning, appliances, plumbing, anything. As they say in sports, he could do it all. Best part, there was no waiting. Knock on the door and ask if Roger could come over and fix something. Oh, once in awhile I'd have to tell them, "Soon as he finishes his homework."
One of my neighbors said, "He's kind of pricey, but he does good work and you can count on him."
He liked to swim, but when we used to vacation at Hilton Head, sometimes you'd look around for him and he'd be gone. You'd find him with some maintenance men or guys installing something. Sometimes he'd be down or up or inside something, just as dirty as they were.
Once I asked him why he didn't get out of his workshop and play games. He said, "Daddy, you play golf for fun. This is my game."
Junkyards were his playgrounds. He'd make friends with the man who ran the place and get rummaging privileges. Sometimes he'd take some kind of scrap or discard to make a trade, but that was usually a token. One of his closest friendships was made in a junkyard -- well, a scrap dealership would be more proper -- with a man named Dave Pirkle, who while Roger was still a youth, accepted him as an equal.
After he and his wife developed their business, Prime Power Inc., and it grew out of a patch of woods into a good-sized complex, he didn't sit back and delegate. He was hands-on. Once, he and an associate, Rick Taylor, were working on a project at the Centers for Disease Control and Roger spied a dumpster on the grounds. Being a natural forager, he jumped into the dumpster and began looking around when a CDC official showed up.
"I'd like to meet your president, " he said to Rick.
"He's right here, " Rick said, and at that moment, Roger, the president, stood up in the dumpster and said, "Pleased to meet you."
I took him to his first Indianapolis 500, and as soon as we hit town, he caught a taxi to a manufacturing company he'd corresponded with. It wasn't long before he was in the president's office talking shop, this sophomore at Georgia Tech. It was sort of like the time when Jesus disappeared and his parents found him in the temple talking with the elders, and I hope that isn't overdrawn.
I took him to his first, and only, bowl game. Georgia Tech played Texas Tech in the Sun Bowl, but the highlight of the trip was crossing into Juarez, his first time in a foreign country. He was careful not to drink the water.
The subject of Roger comes up today because I have lost him. A beautiful, handsome, loving man, no finer son has any parent ever had, and I grieve. Old men like me should be going first, not one who had so much to give to the world as he. Roger Chisholm Bisher passed away Monday afternoon. I saw him take his first breath in life and I saw him take his last. He was just 44, but in my heart he shall always be that smiling child blowing up his workshop. Thanks for giving me your time.
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