An Obituary for My Daddy, Bernard D. Reese

Bernard Dexter Reese (2015)

Bernard “Pete” Reese passed away at home in Easley, SC on Saturday, April 5, 2025. He was 78.

Born Bernard Dexter Reese on December 6, 1946, he would jokingly remind anyone that he “was a beautiful baby.” The second of four children, he was the eldest son of the late J.C. Reese and Reverend Sue E. (Lipscomb) Reese. As a child, he was a gifted student with a prodigious memory, a fastidious tinkerer who loved working with his hands, and a self-taught artist whose hand-painted murals adorned several churches across the tri-county area for many years.

One day as he was leaving school, he caught a “clear view” of a girl waiting for the school bus, and in his words, he knew then that he’d love her until the day he died. He wooed Margaret Ann (Williams) with poetry, elegant penmanship, and artfully folded letters. Two years her senior, he graduated from Clearview High School in 1964 at the top of his class and enlisted in the Air Force shortly thereafter. He served as an air policeman for four years, including one tour in Vietnam, plus one year in the reserves before returning home to Clemson. 

His marriage to Margaret would last 54 years, during which they lived out every facet and word of their vows, ultimately proving that love is a force that abides, stems many a tide, and does not end. Their union blessed them with two beautiful girls, Kimbereley (the Wanka Banka) and Danita (the Woochie Wooch), who were his pride, joy, and at times, defiant agents of hard-headedness and aggravation. He taught them the joys of dabbling in the kitchen, the importance of doing things the precise way the first time, how to be handy around the house, and best of all, how to “handle the wheel” of any moving vehicle. His delight in masterminding their underage driving exploits tickled him to bits and served as his greatest act of rebellion—even as he lamented the ache in his big toe (Woochie started out with a Big Wheel) and hastily clutched every “oh shit” handle within reach (“Wanka got that leadfoot like her mama!”).

For all his promise and potential, there was also pain, strife, and perseverance. He lost his father as a young man to intrafamily violence, and, like many a Vietnam soldier, remained haunted by what he witnessed and was charged to do in service of his country. When prejudice and segregation dashed his hopes of serving as a civilian police officer, he became a tradesman, pouring his energy and acumen into cement finishing and welding.

To most, he was known affectionately as Pete(r), big brother and sidekick to Rabbit aka McKinley. (The origins of this joint nickname precede the authors of this obituary, but if you know Cotton, he might be able to tell you.) To hear some tell it, Pete had more lives than the luckiest cat, surviving multiple car accidents, a few close encounters with fire, and a few more run-ins with the criminal justice system.

He never set out to intentionally do things to land him in jail, but if you knew Pete Reese when he was in a Pete Reese mood, you knew he was going to do what he wanted and there wasn’t going to be much of anything you could say or do about it. He could be unyielding and confounding in his principles. His word was his bond and if he looked you square in the eye, you knew whatever happened next was gonna be true to the bone. He enjoyed the grit of hard work and the satisfaction of a job well done. He could be persnickety about his paycheck, an errant crease in the paper, and dirty clippers. He was a voracious reader and a master of craft.

If you needed his help, it would cost you as little as a six-pack or a two-piece with a biscuit from KFC. He didn’t take kindly to liars or thieves, whether they were family or not. And his intolerance for hypocrites put him at odds with the church and oftentimes himself, but he could recite the Bible at will and on demand if ever he thought you needed reminding.

His heart loved purely and fiercely, through fault and betrayal, to an extent where the aches and breaks, sadly, often resulted in an excess of drink—but it only faltered in the end.

He is survived by his ever faithful, loving wife and daughters as well as a humble host of family and remaining friends.

Per his resonant baritone request and the firm signaling of his mighty left hand, there will be no funeral or memorial service. But you can remember and honor him by playing some B.B. King or King Curtis (Soul Serenade is his favorite), sippin’ on a cold one, and greeting anyone you care to know with a nod, a smile, and a “whatcha say ‘bout it.”