Legacy (part I)

You think how you grow up is completely normal until you actually do grow up a little and see the world around you. I’m not saying the way I grew up was perfect by any means, but my “normal” is definitely not the reality of most families. I grew up in a small rural town with two parents that still love each other and a large extended family where the majority of them live only about 15-20 minutes a part. My grandparents have been on my mind a lot lately. I’ve been contemplating writing this blog since shortly after I first started blogging. So many thoughts and memories, but I wasn’t sure if words would do them justice and I’m still not sure.The more appropriate title of this blog could be “Greatest Man I’ve Ever Known”: my Pa. I know that sounds like a cliché but it is the truth. My grandfather (dad’s dad) was quite remarkable and over the past few years I only begun to realize his greatness. He grew up pretty poor in rural South Georgia during the Depression era. He learned the lesson of sacrifice and selflessness after his father passed away at a young age when he forewent secondary school to work and provide for his mother and siblings. Even as I’m writing this it seems a little surreal and unimaginable but my grandfather’s lack of reading skills reminds me that it was reality for him.

Fast forward a few years later and this handsome man met a shy young lady over a Coke bottle that would soon become my Grandmother (MeMa as we called her). As love and life progressed they started a family that resulted in five boys. My dad and his brothers have great childhood stories of growing up with little money but lots of imagination and mischief that only a household of boys could bring. Like the time when someone ate a cake that my MeMa had made for a special occasion but somehow disappeared despite the “do not eat sign” on top of the cake. A few days later another cake was baked with chocolate laxative to figure out just who the sneaky culprit was. My Pa was a carpenter by trade. I remember riding around town in his old Navy blue truck and looking at the houses and churches that he had built, repaired, and remodeled. Not many girls can say the house that they grew up in was built by her grandfathers (My mom’s dad “Papa Raymond” and my Pa were partners for awhile in their own construction business). They built our house the summer before I started Kindergarten and there are many fun memories surrounding that summer, the least of which would be stepping on a rusty nail and having to go get a tetanus shot. It was amazing to see the craftsmanship of his hands and the integrity that went into everything that he built. I remember our Saturday morning trips to the Hardware store that had a video section (I told you I grew up in a small, rural town) and he would always let me get Sleeping Beauty because he understood that a four year old girl could never get tired of watching the same movie over and over again.

I loved and still continue to love my Pa very much. I’m so grateful for all of the memories and lessons that he showed me while he was still here and how legacy lives on in my dad, my uncles, my cousins, my sister, his friends, his community and me. I’m so thankful for the lessons I learned about love, life, faith, and family.

The relationship that my grandparents shared wasn’t the typical 1950’s type of relationship. They were equals and had mutual respect for each other and their “household“ roles and responsibilities. Now while my Pa wasn’t a very good cook and I don’t think I would’ve been either if I had a spouse that cooked as good as my MeMa, he wasn’t afraid to wash dishes, take out the trash, or mop the kitchen floor. The love between the two of them was undeniable. They weren’t perfect and knew how to push each other buttons at times, but they did understand and live out the commitment that they made to each other. My Pa was very different from the stone faced men of his generation and wasn’t afraid to show his emotions for those that he loved.

Growing up during the era of segregation and the intense racial strains, my Pa was a man that definitely went against the cultural norm of his day. It wasn’t uncommon to hear a white man refer to a man of color using the awful “n” word, but I never once heard that word and any utter of disrespect. He had this deep understanding that we aren’t really that different after all, except for the amount of myelin in our skin. I remember people that had worked for and with him stopping by his house to share their love and respect for a man that saw them as equal and a person of worth. My grandparents were generous people even though they were by no means wealthy. I learned from them that you don’t have to have a lot to be able to give to and serve others. My Pa would always give thanks for food before a meal, because he was truly thankful for the blessing of having food on the table and not taking it for granted. People that didn’t have a family to spend the holidays with were often found around the table at Thanksgiving and Easter.

The summer after my freshman year of college, my world was rocked by a phone call that I received while driving to Savannah in late July. The summer cold that we thought my Pa had was much worse than ever expected and was in fact an extremely aggressive and inoperable form of lung cancer. The years of working with asbestos siding and growing up rolling your own cigarettes had finally taken their toll on his otherwise healthy body. I spent the next few weeks trying to soak up this new reality that my world would be different and someone that I loved dearly would no longer physically be with me. It was a harsh reality and still is to this day. I can’t fully describe what all I witnessed in the last few weeks of his life around a kitchen table and later a hospice bed. I cherish the time we had together before I had to leave for school and he had to leave for good: sitting together and talking, taking care of him of the one who has always taken care of me when his body started to fail, seeing others listen to the voice of wisdom that only a life like his could provide, family members reconcile each other, and witnessing a faith that didn’t waiver but was only strengthened in the face of death. It is all too great for words but the firm impression that has been made on my spirit, mind, and heart and will be with me for the rest of my days. I’m thankful for all of his lessons and the ability to witness a life that was lived well and to the fullest.

It has been over five years and I still intensely miss his worn-out overalls, fresh vegetables from his garden, wisdom on life, calling me Jessipher, swinging in the backyard, “resting his eyes” while kicked back in his old recliner, stories from his childhood, funny sayings and jokes, and too many other things to list. I miss you and love you Pa.