By Chandler Inions

My cousin David Milligan died this week. There won’t be any Sunday specials on TV about the legacy he leaves behind or ballads written about his escapades, but I promise you that everyone who knew him will carry a piece of that man with them always and be better off for it. 

He did not go by Dave. He was David. I don’t know if he cared all that much about the Biblical origins of that name, but he did name his son Adam, so I like to think it mattered to him at least a little. He named his dog Samson, too. He loved a dog now. 

David came from a long line of Milligans that grew tobacco in Ash, North Carolina, going back more than 100 years. We had the same great-grandfather Joseph Harvey Milligan. The branches of J.H.’s family tree stretched far like a live oak, offering shaded respite to many a kin.

Among the sturdiest of those offshoots was David. A more apt name might ironically have been Goliath. Greater feats of human strength I have not seen on ESPN, but most notable was how a giant like David could be so gentle. He was patient and kind with a tender heart. When my grandfather died, David was one of the first there to offer condolence, accompanied by a plate of chicken grilled just like Papa made it.

David loved Papa. I know that his passing hurt David much like it hurt all of us, but in that moment, we needed support and David was there like he always was — a stapled fixture in our lives, always just right up the road.  

Now I know that growing up near Ocean Isle Beach might sound like most people’s ideal upbringing. Who would not want to live where people vacation? The thing about that misconception is people who live at the beach don’t actually spend that much time with their toes in the sand. No, instead the Milligans mired away on the fertile farmland southwestern Brunswick County in the watershed of the Waccamaw River. I remember running barefoot through those fields when it rained. Maybe that was close enough. 

When I was a teenager working on that farm, most kids my age probably thought Lil Wayne was the coolest guy in the world. Not me. When you spend the summer topping and suckering tobacco, you lose sight of contemporary culture and forge your own heroes. 

I leaned into the wise ways of intermittent napping from the unelected “Gov,” smoked my first cigarette with the one they called “Gator” and looked to David for tips on dealing with the oppressive heat. Best practices dictated finding something to take your mind off it. 

Well thankfully, David was a great story teller. Being older made him a portal to a lost generation that we young’ins could only dream about. David also loved to cut the fool with you, so I often wondered how many of those tales were steeped in manure. One thing is certain, they took my mind off the heat.

David taught me a lot of things but none so forceful as how to drive a tractor. He did it with persistence but never rushed me and by God, when I returned to school that fall, my cap had a feather that my classmates’ caps did not. 

A lot of my memories of David were on the farm. I’m grateful for those. He taught me most importantly that a hard day’s work does not have to be a bad day. But my brother and I joke that David missed his true calling. He should have been a crime scene investigator. You could not get anything past him. When my brother’s friend crashed his Ford Explorer into a ditch, David could tell what kind of car it was based on the imprint in the dirt, even though the perpetrator and his vehicle were long gone.

He ensnared me into confessing during one interrogation about scorched rubber on the pavement, declaring with certainty that Uniroyal tires, like those on my car, made those marks. If he was bluffing, I was too scared to call his hand. 

I do know that when my high school friends and I used to camp out by “the pond,” David stood sentry, across the field and out of sight, even if it meant staying out there til dawn, just to make sure nothing bad happened. Our unofficial chaperone is probably why my overprotective mother ever signed off on those camping trips to begin with. 

I’m going to miss David. I’m so thankful for our last phone call. It almost did not happen. I was home for an oyster roast and my brother had him on the phone. We talked for a few minutes. I filled him in on my Salisbury stories. We laughed. Before he hung up, David said cheekily, “Well, Chandler, it doesn’t sound like you’ve changed one bit, but I still love you.”

I love you too David and I always will. I hope you and Papa are up there grilling chicken. Save me a plate, would ya?

Chandler Inions is editor of the Salisbury Post.