papaw's service

Several years ago me and my brothers had to say goodbye to our last living grandparent. We called him Papaw Henry. He was Mom's dad. I don't remember Papaw as being a man with a lot of words. He always looked like he was thinking, and he never, ever seemed to sit down. As a matter of fact, he roamed a lot, mostly through the woods. He would sometimes head out the door before the sun came up, disappear into the trees and be invisible 'til sundown, sometimes sunup tomorrow. He knew how to live ruggedly and naturally. Papaw was a survivor - in more ways than I probably really knew.

When Papaw got too old to trek through the woods he pretty much figured he was too old to live. Sitting in an air conditioned room or at a nursing home wasn't his idea of living. Life was in the trees, under the stars, beyond the ridge, over the creek. There was too much Indian in him not to enjoy the dirt and the rain and their children. So when he couldn't make it among the elements he wasn't really interested in making it at all. Sadly, that's bound to happen after so many years.

I do remember Papaw driving a variety of cars over the years. He was somewhat of a horse-trader, so trading up to him meant getting a car with a full tank of gas. Honestly, I don't think he ever carried a driver's license. I could be wrong, but it seems like someone told me once that he never bothered to get one. Evidently he didn't see the need.

Knowing what I do about him, I'll bet Papaw learned most of his lessons the hard way. When any of his young grandkids asked him what he was chewing, and even with only a couple of teeth in his head he was always chewing - and spitting, he'd cut 'em off a piece of the tobacco twist he carried around and give it to them. They'd put it in their mouth, it would burn like the dickens, they'd spit it out and never take up chewing tobacco again. It was his way of telling us to do as he says, not as he does.

Papaw lived a very, very hard working and practical life. His pets lived in the trees and under the brush. They were also his sustenance. Squirrels, rabbits, turkeys and deer were part of the provision. His own cattle, pigs and chickens were too. The eggs and bacon came from the barn. He cooked his own sorghum and grew his own vegetables. Tomorrow's milk and butter was grazing just across the little wire fence. Papaw's yelp brought the cows back across the knob every night. We knew they heard him when we heard their bells.

I try when I can to pause and remember. I sometimes think if I could go back to those days and nights at Mamaw and Papaw's house, the one tucked up in the hollow (pronounced holler), just across the creek from the narrow, dirt road, I'd be where I belong. I know for sure there was no air conditioning in that little farm house. On cold days, heat came from the coal burning stove in the front room. I'm sure it got both hot and cold in that small, square box, but I don't remember it as a miserable experience.

Papaw Henry was a veteran. He served his country as a proud, young American. That was long before I knew him. That was long before my mom knew him. I've seen pictures of him in his uniform, but I don't ever recall him making a big deal out of it. We did though. When we were planning his funeral, we made sure that he was honored with a flag and a stone to remind all of us that it is the simple, common, everyday man and woman who keeps us free.