Papa

My grandfather passed away on Friday morning. He was gone barely 30 minutes after I left for work. It was a shock, because although he was 92, he was in perfect health. In fact, when my dad called the Dr. to let them know, the Dr. called back because he couldn't believe it. He was staring at the results of bloodwork done on Tuesday and everything was exactly as it should be. Just goes to show, we should never take time for granted because we are not guaranteed our next minute.

Since the grandsons will all be pallbearers, they thought it would be nice to give the granddaughters the chance to speak at the funeral on Tuesday. Following is what I have prepared...


In searching for the perfect thing to read here, I was at a loss. Sure there are plenty of poems and prose available, but they were not right. The sentiment was there, but the words were just too flowery to be what I wanted. Papa was not a flowery man – though he planted them when Granny asked him to. He was a potato, tomato, corn, peas, okra and onions kind of man. He was a cow working, sharpen his own tools kind of man. Poems with flowery words would not do him justice.

Papa lived a life full of stories and if you knew him a minute, you knew he could tell a tale. Visits to their house growing up meant sweet tea as only Granny could make it, soft peppermint candy from the jar in the kitchen, and getting beat at checkers on a homemade board by Papa.

They almost always also included a true – well mostly true, and sometimes completely false story told by Papa. He shared stories from his childhood. Given my mom was from the Tyler area, he often shared driving there with his dad in a Model T Ford to pick up his brother. It was an all day event and as a young child – maybe 8 or 9 years old – Papa would drive part of the way. The memory was so clear to him that he often asked about the brick streets when he retold the story while staying with us.

He told tales of a toothbrush salesman who would give free toothpaste to people as a way to lure them in. Only the toothpaste was not really toothpaste, and after using it, customers always needed a toothbrush. See any of us for the rest of that one. He shared another story about foiling a kidnapper who stopped to barter with him. The man was from Iowa and traveled with a little girl. He built Papa a chest for his sister in exchange for the wood he needed to build his own chest as well. He recounted being struck by lightening and the lifelong impact that had.

His prose took us to Japan with him as he retold his experience of fighting in World War II. One of the most profound stories shared was of the Army receiving excess meat that they were going to have to dispose. Being a man who didn’t waste anything, he asked some of the Japanese ladies if they could use it instead. They were thrilled to receive such a treasure. Not only did he provide sustenance and avoid waste, he showed kindness and compassion to people were victims of the war equal to the Americans being attacked. He had an opportunity to revisit Japan through pictures Kerri sent from her winter trip. The day they arrived, he nearly met me at the door to show me the album and share the story of her visit.

For Papa, the story was not as much abut the topic, as it was the presentation. He his eyes would twinkle and his mouth would shape into his story-telling grin. He practiced emphasis and inflection as well as gestures to make sure the tale was told exactly as it needed to be told. I am grateful for the gift God gave my parents and I to have him in our house the last nine months. It was an honor and a joy to hear his stories one more time.

Papa lived a life of example. He worked hard, valued family, served his country and had an unwavering faith in God. He enjoyed his garden, working cows, any ballgame and Blue Bell ice cream. He taught us to never let anyone win at checkers and to live a life worth retelling.