Papa

I always called him Papa. Even after I was a grown man, he was still Papa to me.

When I was growing up in Mississippi, he was the only father figure I had until my mother remarried. I never knew my own father, and my paternal grandparents remain a mystery to me. If you're a regular reader of this blog, you know that I grew up with my maternal grandparents. When they divorced in 1972--long after they probably should have split up, frankly--I lived with my grandmother until her death during my senior year (December 27, 1980, to be specific). After that, I lived with Papa.

He gave me my first job, working with him as a carpenter. I use the term "carpenter" loosely to describe myself, but he taught me what he knew about painting and roofing and plumbing and whatever else it took to build a house. I worked with him during every Spring Break and every summer and every winter break from school even after I started college. If I know anything about tools and fixing things, it's because of him. I still have the toolbox he gave me as a gift, and I have several tools that he gave me as well. And I have so many memories of the places we worked on, including that first house I helped to build and all of those roofs we put on during the hottest days of the summer.

I also owe him my sense of humor. If I'm at all funny, it's because of his genes. My mother is funny, but even she would admit that Papa is the source. I can remember him cutting a slice of cake for himself one night and then taking a bite and telling me that I wouldn't like it. "It's got that old moist taste," he said. Then he'd say that he didn't think it was "fit to eat," but, of course, a second slice would be the determining factor. I'm nowhere near as subtle as he was, but I like to think that I owe him my sense of humor.

He was in a terrible car accident three weeks ago. He ran a red light and hit a semi truck. The truck Papa and my step-grandmother were in spun into another car before finally coming to a stop. He was thrown from the car because, as usual, he refused to wear his seatbelt. He made sure his wife was buckled up, saving her life, thankfully. She suffered some bruising and a fractured leg, but that's all, amazingly.

He spent two weeks in a surgical trauma intensive care unit. He was only allowed visitors four times a day for twenty minutes. I was teaching summer school and had one more week to go when my mother called to say that the end would likely be near and that I should make arrangements to get there as soon as possible. I purchased my plane tickets, planning to fly on Tuesday of last week. He died Monday afternoon after his wife made the difficult decision to take him off life support when his kidneys and liver failed. He had been on a machine that was doing most of his breathing and another that kept his heart pumping. He had pneumonia and what my mother keeps calling "weeping edema." He was 86 years old, and although he was in good shape from having remained active all his life, there's no way he could have survived all of the injuries he sustained. And he wouldn't have wanted to be an invalid, believe me. He hated being in the hospital the few times he was ever sick.

Members of my family who were there said they're glad I didn't see him in the hospital. He certainly looked like he had suffered a tremendous amount of pain when I saw him at the funeral home on Thursday night. He almost didn't look like Papa. He didn't have that smile I was used to seeing. I know he's no longer in pain and, hopefully, now at peace. I only wish I could have said goodbye to him before he passed away. He's buried in a little country cemetery in rural Alabama, and he has a view of a beautiful pasture filled with cattle. If I know him, he's probably complaining that the owner should plow the land and plant some corn instead of wasting all that good land on a bunch of cows. (He was never much of a beef eater except for the occasional hamburger.)

When I would talk about going home to visit, I meant going to see Papa. The picture I've included of the two of us is from one of those holiday visits. It's from Thanksgiving a few years ago, and we're riding his four-wheeler, which he drove like a crazy person, by the way. He had already driven me down to the pond to see his fish and over to the chicken house and out to the dump. We were coming back to the house when this picture was snapped. My mother loves this picture of us, and so do I. It's the last photo that I have of him. I don't know what my family will do this Thanksgiving without Papa. We'll have nowhere to go, and even if we do all meet, it certainly won't be the same.

I saw lots of my family--and it's a big family--last week. He still has three sisters who all live in the same area, and there are lots of grandchildren and great-grandchildren and even a couple of great-great-grandchildren. I stayed with my uncle and his wife, whom I'd not seen in years, and they live next to two of my cousins and their families. I reconnected with people from high school who heard of his death and wanted to come see me. I met a lot of people who knew my grandfather from his more than 60 years as a carpenter and from his life spent in the same geographical area. Thursday's visitation was packed, a testament to how well liked Papa was.

Mostly, though, I cried. I broke down on the phone with my brother when he called last Monday to tell me the news. And I cried again when I saw my mother at the airport on Tuesday when she and my stepfather came to pick me up. I had to walk outside the funeral home several times Thursday night because I was so overcome with emotion. And the funeral on Friday rendered me speechless except for my sobs. Even on the plane ride home on Saturday, I felt the tears begin to well up a few times, but I somehow managed to hold them in until I got in my own car in the parking lot.

So many of you have lost loved ones, and you have been such good counsel for me during the past few weeks. I do appreciate all of your thoughts and prayers. I would never have made it through without your help. I know I'm not done grieving, but I'm very grateful to know that you've been there for me. I recognize that this post is going to be a difficult one to get through for many of you--it was tough for me, too--but I needed to write down what I'm feeling. It might help me to move on to the next stage, so thank you for indulging me.