Disclaimer:
This is the obituary of Billy Dale Harvey – as we believe he would have written it himself. If you hear a little mischief or feel a tug of a grin while reading, that’s just Billy poking through the veil.
Spoiler Alert: I’m Dead, But Still Talking
Well, if you’re reading this, it looks like I finally kicked the bucket and crossed over that great divide.
Hopefully I did it with dignity – and my boys better have had me in clean socks. More importantly – thank God I’m out of that dang wheelchair. And don’t even get me started on the catheter. Let’s just hope heaven has a “no tubes” policy, if you know what I mean.
But truly, I don’t regret a thing. I had a great life, filled with wild stories, good people, and more laughs than I deserved. If anything I did helps you live your own life a little fuller, then job well done.
Cast of Characters (a.k.a. My People)
Let’s start with the basics. I was born on September 9, 1950 and raised in Greenville, Texas, I was lucky to be the son of William Powell Harvey – an incredible father, steady provider, and ski instructor extraordinaire – and my spunky, firecracker of a mom, Etta Dell Harvey. If you ever met her, you already know she could fill a room, hold her own, and make a preacher blush – all before lunch. Together they gave me a childhood full of love, life, and the occasional misadventure. They both preceded me in death, and I imagine they have the welcome mat out and a strong cup of coffee waiting – maybe even a cold beer or two tucked discreetly into the ‘Baptist Beer Drawer’ in the fridge.
I’m also survived by two sons I somehow didn’t completely screw up – Brad and Ryan Harvey – and six amazing grandkids who gave me more joy than a well-cooked brisket: Grace, Lilly, Rose, and Clara (Brad’s crew), and Evangeline and Cash (Ryan’s dynamic duo). They’re smart, funny, and far more tech savvy than I ever was – and let’s be honest, they’re the real legacy I’m leaving behind.
How I Went from Greenville to Gas Man
I graduated from Greenville High School in 1968 – Go Lions! – and count myself blessed to have lifelong friends from those days. We grew up in the golden time before cable TV, cell phones, and the internet messed everything up. It was idyllic. And hilarious.
After high school, I did what any good East Texas boy with ambition and a lack of good sense would do – I headed to the University of Texas to become a petroleum landman. Hook ’em! I joined the Chi Phi fraternity and let’s just say… some stories aren’t fit for print, but I lived through them. Barely. My career took me to Shell Energy, which sent me north to Traverse City, Michigan – where, to their future dismay, my two sons Brad and Ryan were born. Yes, they’re technically Yankees. We bounced to New Orleans, then Houston, where I eventually landed with Mitchell Energy in The Woodlands. That time of life was full – raising boys with Lana my first wife, discovering what kind of trouble two smart kids could get into, and later watching them become men I was truly proud of.
Eventually, I met Lois Torres, my third wife, at Mitchell Energy. We married in 2001 and later moved to Biloxi Mississippi to be closer to her family and, as it turns out, to make another big life change.
I should also mention there was a second wife – while that chapter didn’t last, I was lucky to be part of her son Grant’s life, a bond I truly valued right up to the end.
Plot Twist: I Became a Mortician
In a move that shocked nearly everyone – including me – I left the oil world and decided to become a mortician. I did my mortuary science schooling in Houston, completed my internship at Coker-Mathews in my beloved hometown of Greenville, and got to be close to my parents in their final years. A blessing, no doubt.
I went back to school – yes, again – and got my master’s degree from Houston Baptist University. Go Huskies!
That degree helped me step into my true calling: teaching. I became the director of the Mortuary Science program at Mississippi Gulf Coast Community College. It was one of the greatest honors of my life. I wore a tie. Occasionally. And I was blessed with incredible students, colleagues, and friends who made that chapter unforgettable.
Life Lessons, Dad-isms, and Other Pearls of Wisdom
After getting the boring-but-necessary basics out of the way, I’d like to leave you with my final, last-edited thoughts – my legacy to live by. Think of this as the Director’s Cut: a few opinions, some stories, and maybe a nugget or two of wisdom. And hey, if you don’t like it… I won’t be reading the reviews anyway.
Let’s just say I’ve lived enough life to know that most of what matters can’t be measured. It’s not about the cars, the careers, or the square footage. It’s about the people. It’s about the notes you take the time to write, the meals you share, the laughs that catch you by surprise.
I wasn’t perfect. (Except for that one week in 1983 – I was pretty on point then.) But I tried to be kind. I tried to show up. And I sure as heck tried to make people laugh, even when life wasn’t all that funny.
So, take care of each other. Don’t hoard your stories – share them. And for goodness’ sake, say thank you. Out loud. With feeling. And maybe with a note.
Things I Mailed and Other Dad Moves
My sons used to make fun of me for all the letters I sent them – and honestly, I earned it. One time, I saw some leftover birthday cake in the Mitchell Energy cafeteria and thought, “Well, Ryan’s in college, probably broke and hungry. He’d appreciate this.” So I stacked a couple of slices between two paper plates, stapled them together (yes, stapled), stuck it in a 9×11 envelope, and shipped it off to Lufkin, Texas. That’s love – and a little bit of a federal offense, probably.
And let’s not forget the salt and pepper packets, pens, highlighters, paper clips – basically anything not bolted down at Mitchell Energy – quietly rerouted to Texas Tech and Angelina College for Brad and Ryan’s benefit. Hopefully the statute of limitations has expired, but let’s just say I was a one-man school supply syndicate. Because when you’re a dad, you find creative ways to make sure your kids have what they need. Even if it means mailing condiments.
Did I go overboard? Maybe. But if you ever got a weird package or a surprise note from me, I hope it made you laugh. Or at least wonder, “What the heck is this man up to now?”
Notes, Coupons, and Other Relics of Kindness
Maybe the one thing I was genuinely good at – besides repurposing office supplies – was taking the time to show people I cared. Not with a quick text or a passing “how ya doin’,” but with something that had some weight to it. Real paper. Real ink. A little piece of time.
I always believed there’s something sacred in writing a note, clipping out a newspaper article – or heck, even a coupon – that reminded me of someone, and mailing it their way. Maybe it was for a sale on pickles, maybe it wasn’t. But it said, “I thought of you.” It’s a lost art these days, but for me, it was how I showed love. Slower, sure – but with intention and usually a first-class stamp.
So if you ever got a note from me, know it wasn’t random. It was me, saying: “I see you. I’m thinking about you. You matter.” That’s not a bad legacy to leave behind.
The Final Party (You Better Come)
So from what I’m being told – yes, I’m still getting updates, apparently – my sons have everything set up over at Coker-Mathews Funeral Home in Greenville, Texas. There’ll be a visitation from 6pm to 8pm this Saturday, and a service at 2 o’clock on Sunday. After that, I’ll be laid to rest out at Memoryland, close to my parents, Uncle Bud, and a whole row of other characters I’m lucky to call family. But don’t stop there. Like I told the boys – once you’ve said goodbye at the cemetery, head downtown to Landon Winery in Greenville. Around 4 o’clock (or whenever y’all finish telling stories graveside), raise a glass, tell some jokes, laugh hard, and celebrate my life. That’s how I’d want it. And please, don’t send me flowers. Instead, take that time, that money, that energy – and use it to sit down and write someone a note. Pay it forward. Help someone who’s having a rough go. Send a word of encouragement to a friend. Reach out to somebody and let them know they matter. Don’t text – pick up the phone and call. And if you can’t call, then write. But whatever you do, don’t keep it to yourself. Help me continue the legacy. And boys – don’t drop the ball this time like you almost did when you damn near burned down the house.
I’ll be watching. And probably laughing.
