My father, Henry Hardy Perritt, liked to be called "Hardy," although he came to prefer "Dr. Perritt," after he earned his PhD. He was the youngest of six siblings born to Franklin Sharbrough Perritt and Blanche Bagley Perritt who ran a farm in Wesson, Mississippi. Precocious from an early age, he planned, first to be a preacher, then thought about being a lawyer, engaged in politics and was tempted by becoming a candidate, fell in love with the Navy during World War II, and then crystallized his career around being an professor. His PhD thesis explored the rhetoric of Robert Barnwell Rhett, one of the "fireeaters," who stirred up the civil war.
Daddy was handsome, charismatic, and he sure knew how to give a speech.
He also had an undue fondness for alcohol, which, in his younger years, just made him more appealing, but in his later years, killed him.
Meanwhile, the alcohol abuse fueled family dynamics.
Daddy was dismissive about any creative efforts on my part, such as singing or storytelling, although he later joined my Mother in supporting my learning to play the clarinet.
He was enthusiastic, however, about my interest in radios and electronics, and encouraged me to prepare to get my amateur radio license--although he bitched about my disturbing his afternoon nap my reciting the Morse code too loudly.
