Excerpt from obituary: Services for Ernest Craft Dowdey, Sr., 59, of Blythewood, will be held at 4 p.m. Monday at Oak Grove United Methodist Church. The family will receive friends from 6 to 8 tonight at Dunbar Funeral Home, Gervais Street Chapel. Memorials may be made to the church.

Mr. Dowdey died Saturday, May 22, 1993. Born in Columbia, he was a son of Sarah Craft Dowdey and the late Tillinghast Morgan Dowdey. Retired from the Air National Guard, he was employed with Southern Bell. He was formerly a weatherman at Cedar Creek and was a member of Grove United Methodist Church, he formerly served on the Administrative Board.

Surviving are his wife, Florrie Dowdey; his mother [Sarah Craft Dowdey] of Columbia; sons, Ernest Dowdey Jr. of Columbia, Donald Dowdey of Pomeria and Gregory Dowdey of Englewood, Colo.; stepdaughters, Valerie and Melanie Thomas, both of Blythewood; brothers, Carl Dowdey of Charlotte and T.M. and Harvey Dowdey, both of Columbia; and sisters, Bernice Scarborough of Columbia and Ethel Brannon of Stone Mountain, Ga.

[NOTE: Donald Dowdey was 43 years old when he died on May 1, 2000. He is buried in Elmwood Cemetery Mausoleum. He operated a business in Chapin, SC.]

The following is a school paper written around 1995 by Melanie Thomas when she was in the 11th grade:

As I was driving the other day down a long country road near my house, I passed a yellow, 4x4 Ford truck which amazingly resembled my step-dad's. I slowed and looked closer, the driver was a middle-aged, short, grey-haired man wearing a cap and chewing on a toothpick. I took a deep breath as the tears welled up in my eyes. It happened so fast, the past flashed before me. The memories packed away in a safe place in my heart came to me in a split second. I looked in my rear-view mirror and the truck passed as tears fell on my cheeks.

Ernie had basically raised me since my dad, his former best friend, left and my mom was forced to work two jobs. Everyday after kindergarten, my aunt dropped me off at Nannie's. Around five o'clock, I got excited because soon there would be a white Southern Bell truck to come and get me. Ernie and I were dedicated Smurf fans and had our ritual cartoon-watching sessions until mymom was home. Ernie and I would work on my homework, plant azaleas or work on one of the many volkswagons that were always broken down. Every Saturday we went to the zoo in the volkswagon that we had fixed. Ernie was my best friend and I was his best girl.

Almost 3 1/2 years ago Ernie was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Six months later he was "cured" by radiation therapy and once again the future looked bright. We planned a trip to Disney World with Valerie (my sister) and my mom. Ernie bought a new double-wide and Valerie moved in to get out on her own. We bought a new car and were happy. During Ernie's annual check up the doctor told him that he had cancer once again but this time it was worse.

Ernie went through Chemotherapy; however, the cancer was too far advanced to stop it. Ernie never got sick, he never cried (that I saw) and he worked three months until his death on May 22, 1993.

I had never felt the kind of pain that I then endured. I hated my own life, but most of all, I hated that Ernie was stolen from me. The whole time that he had cancer, he often caught me crying, but he never felt sorry for himself.

When I was little I used to ask, "Ernie, do you love me?" and he always replied, "You know I do." He had never come out and said "Melanie, I love you." He never had to, I knew it. The night that he died, he called Valerie and I into his room. We finally called the ambulance when he could no longer breathe. While we were waiting, he grabbed my hand, he thanked us for loving and caring for him and he said, "I love you." I had never realized how much those words could mean until I knew those were the last he ever spoke to me.