March 23, 2025
The man sitting across from me at a restaurant was picking at his chicken pot pie, talking more than eating. He had a story to tell.
He was born on Aug. 20, 1944, in a hospital in Fayetteville, N.C. His mother packed up her things and left him there. Two of her sisters came and got him. One of them was married to a man surnamed Rader, so that became the baby’s last name.
Thus began the untidy life of Robert Russell Rader, “Bob” for short.
I had met him in a department store where my wife and I were shopping. He noticed the Masters Tournament cap I was wearing and approached us.
“I played that course one time and shot an 82,” he said. Later he explained. He knew somebody who knew somebody and actually played the Augusta National, home of the Masters. He also played golf at Bay Hill Golf Course in Orlando with the great Arnold Palmer. He knew somebody who knew Arnold Palmer. I don’t have space to list all the other dignitaries he golfed with, the list is long.
Rader was a sales clerk at the department store where we shopped. Had been for three years. At 80, he also draws social security. But his resumé is impressive for someone who was moved about 30 times—from foster home to foster home—some of them okay, some very bad.
He remembers as a boy cutting his feet on shards from broken liquor bottles as he made his way to the bathroom at night. He was emotionally and/or sexually abused at some homes.
But Bob Rader is a survivor. He survived to become CEO of banks in five cities in the Deep South. He survived to become a consultant who helped establish new banks in city after city.
He survived to become a lobbyist for banks in Washington and in the South.
He survived and repented of the unpleasant things he did to attract customers and get favorable votes.
He survived a bad marriage and now has a good one.
He and his wife, Donna, lost a small fortune when the economy went sour in 2007-2008, closing numerous banks and leaving him holding the bag.
A daughter died of cancer, leaving him and Donna with a teenager to raise.
“She is doing great,” he said. “And raising a teenager keeps us young.”
Rader—called Radar by most of his banking friends—is happy with his life as it turned out to be: celebrating his grandchildren’s successes, meeting people in the department store, enjoying a good marriage, enjoying survival.
By the way, he saw his mother. She came into a bank where he worked. He somehow got her address and drove to her house. He wanted to ask her why she left him at the hospital. But he decided not to ask. What difference would it make?
And, in his fifties, he said he met his father.
“His name is Jesus.”
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Phil Hudgins is a retired newspaper editor and author from Gainesville, Ga. Reach him at phudgins@cninewspapers.com.
