The One Man From My Childhood

I’ve briefly mentioned before the man I call Papa.  Papa was my mother’s step-father.  He was only 10 years older than she was, so when I was born, that made him a grandfather at the age of 28.

Papa was from Texas and drove a tractor-trailer for a living.  He had a wonderful southern twang in his voice and he called me Sugar, but he pronounced it “Chugar.”

I adored Papa.  When I would stay at my grandma’s house, I would sleep on an old army cot in the front room.  I’d wake up to the sound of his clock radio going off, playing the kind of country music with heavy organ sounds in the beginning.  To this day, that kind of music, the smell of strong, black, coffee or the smell of bacon bring Papa to life in my mind.

As soon as I heard the clock radio playing, I’d run into their room, and climb into bed between them.  Grandma would get up to start fixing breakfast, and I’d follow her, always the ready helper.  She would brush and braid my hair, then give me small tasks to do like putting the butter and sugar on the table.  I’d sit on my knees in the chair next to where Papa would be sitting, and wait eagerly for his arrival.

When Papa came to the table, I’d sit and wait for him to start the game.  The game was that he would take firm hold of one of my braids and pull on it gently and demand, “Give me back my hair!”  I’d laugh and protest playfully as he pulled a little harder.

“No, it’s my hair!” I protested through giggles.

“No, it’s mine,” Papa would say.  Eventually, he’d have pulled my head down to the point that it was resting on the table.  He had a wonderful laugh, and by the time we got to that point, he was cackling in a way I can only describe as lovingly as one can express such a thing that he sounded like an excited chimpanzee.

He drove for North American.  Some days he’d bring his truck home with him.  One time, he allowed me to sit on his lap and hold the steering wheel, while he drove us up and down the road.  I told that to just about anyone who would listen after that.

It wasn’t always wonderful.  I do have a memory of being on my cot, one night.  Papa had gone to bed early.  Grandma was up crocheting.  For some reason, I had a case of the giggles.  Papa seemed to be in a bad mood and he yelled at me to shut up.  I tried.  I really did.  I think I was five years old or so, though, so trying just made me giggle harder.  Papa came out of his room with a belt and beat my ass until I screamed.

When he went back to bed, I looked at my grandma.  She was hiding her eyes behind her crocheting.  I cried myself to sleep.

When I was six years old, we had moved to Germany.  When I was eight, Grandma and Papa were run off the road by a woman who was fishing in her purse for a lipstick.  Their jeep rolled.  Papa was thrown.  Grandma wore her seat belt.  When the ambulance arrived, Papa was walking around looking for Grandma.  She was still in the Jeep.  She was unconscious.

The exact details of what happened next are not clear.  Grandma was taken to the hospital while she was still unconscious.  Unless I misunderstood, the doctor did not check my grandmother out.  In court, he said he didn’t need to.  He could tell she was fine.  He sent her home and she died in her sleep that night.  It was my brother and sister’s birthday, October 5, 1979.  My mother went home for Grandma’s funeral while the rest of us stayed behind in Germany.

We did not have a telephone in Germany, so I didn’t get to talk to my mom or Papa while my mom was away.  I was always uneasy about being alone with Chuck because he had no patience and often beat my brothers with his belt.  I don’t remember him hitting me more than once, in my life, but watching the way he abused my brothers has left me with PTSD.  When I hear a belt buckle jingle, I have flashbacks and my body tenses.

We had a phone in Texas, where we lived for the next three years, but we didn’t use it to call out of the local area.  The next time I saw Papa I was probably about 10 or 11 years old.  He had grown a beard and I didn’t recognize him when he came knocking on our door, one day when he had a haul through Texas.  I stood looking at him, waiting for him to tell me why he was there.  He said my name.

I said, “Yes?” still trying to figure out his reason for visiting, and then I recognized his grin.  “Mama!  Mama!  It’s Papa!  Papa’s here!” I shouted as I fumbled with the lock on the screen door so that I could hug him.  I wanted him to pick me up and swing me like he did so long ago, but I was too big, now.

Papa would visit us whenever he got a haul through Texas.  He got remarried to my mom’s older cousin who had been close to my grandma.  Grandma’s mother, Grandma Dollar, had been angry about Grandma’s death and how things were handled.  She and Papa had fought about arrangements and property division.  They now tried to stay away from each other.  She tried to convince my mom that Papa and her cousin, Sandra, had been having an affair all along.  Noone other than Grandma Dollar believed that.

When we left Texas to return to California while we waited for Chuck to get us a place to live in Germany, we lived with Papa and Sandra.  We had three beds in the garage: one for my brothers, one for me and one for my mom and Audra.  At this time, I was almost 12.  Ed was 8, Ira was 7 and Audra was 5.  It was crowded and uncomfortable.  It seemed like someone was always yelling.  It was ugly and painful.  I still adored Papa, but things were just uncomfortable.

After about five months, my mother moved us to a dumpy motel in the Linda area.

Once my mom got involved with the man I now consider my dad, life was chaotic.  Then I started getting involved with boys and never wanted to go anywhere.  It took some time for me to feel close to Papa again because the time of living with him had been so uncomfortable.  But there was always a twinkle in his eye for me.

Papa and I would talk around birthdays.  In fact, we had a running joke because his brother’s wife had a birthday on January 11.  My birthday is January 16.  For several years in a row, he would get confused and call me on the 11th.  Then we would laugh about the blunder.  It finally got to where I just expected him to call me on the 11th.  But then he would tell me that he was just calling to tell me that it wasn’t my birthday.

After I got divorced and had more control over my life, I made an effort to go see him a little more often.  I was still Chugar.  One evening when I was much older, I called him just to say hi.  He had one of Sandra’s granddaughters, Kaley, on his lap.  They called him Papa, too.

I said, “Hi, Papa!”

He said, “Hi, Chugar!”

Kaley, who was about three years old at the time, said, “Heeeey!  I’m Sugar!”

Papa said, “Uh oh!” in the fun way that he did that meant he was in big trouble.

I said, “You tell her, I’m the original Sugar!”  We all laughed – except maybe Kaley.

Not long after I turned 40, I was planning a large family trip to our favorite camping spot near Fort Bragg.  I had talked to Papa several times trying to convince him to join us.  He told us he would.

I got to the camping site first.  When mom arrived, she told me that Papa had called and wouldn’t be able to come.  He was feeling bad.

Not long after that, we learned that Papa had inoperable cancer.  Sandra took care of him at home, and I made a point to spend as much time with him as I could.  I would drive from Sacramento to Yuba City at least once per week and sit with him.

By now, Papa was bedridden.  He had a hospital bed at home and Sandra had pushed another bed next to it so that she could sleep near him.  I sat in her bed, next to Papa and we watched Westerns together.  We joked and teased as we always did.  Then he told me, “I know I’ve let you down sometimes, and I want to say I’m sorry.”

I tried not to cry.  I told him that he was the last man in my life that I would consider a disappointment and that I adored him.  We spent the next few visits sitting together watching Westerns and doing what it took to make sure that there was nothing left unsaid between us.

He passed away on July 6, 2011.  He was cremated and interred next to my Grandma.  There were only a few of us at the gravesite for the internment.  I played the song “Angel Band” from O, Brother Where Art Thou on my iPhone as a tribute.

There was a celebration of life at the Moose Lodge with many people reading tributes to him.  I read mine and made my mom, aunt, uncle, and cousins cry.  I told most of what I’ve told here, but this is one part I couldn’t bring myself to write again:

 

A couple of months ago, I was on my way from Sacramento to come to visit Papa and Sandra. As I was leaving work, my car over-heated and I called to tell them that I didn’t know if I’d be able to make it or not. Fortunately, I was able to get it cooled down and get there to spend some time visiting. Papa was laying in bed watching a Hallmark Channel Western.

As usual, he was being his ornery self. I’d tell him he better be good, and he’d tell me he was gonna get out of that bed and whoop me. I’d tell him he’d have to catch me first, and he’d get that pretend mad look on his face and “why, you little shit,” and then he’d cackle that cackle that sounded like monkeys jumping on an old set of bed springs.

That western we were watching was about a young forest ranger who, among other things, fell in love with a young woman who worked in the town. I lay in the bed next to Papa and held his hand and we watched the movie together until near the end when the young man had to go back to his hometown and leave his beloved behind for lack of money. Papa looked at me suddenly and said, “get me a bowl.”

I had no reason to question that so I went to the kitchen and got him a bowl. When I gave it to him, he took his cup of water and began pouring it into the bowl. It wasn’t long before the bowl ran over and he got agitated and began pouring the water back into his cup. “I need a bigger bowl,” he told me. “Ain’t there a bigger one?”

“What do you need a bowl for, Papa?” I asked him. By now, I could see that his mind had taken a coffee break. He looked confused and frustrated and said, “I just need a bowl.” He was getting agitated and I was afraid he’d try to get up to get his own bowl, so I went and got Sandra. When she came in she asked him why he needed a bowl, and after much sputtering, he finally explained.

“You see that lady right there?” he said, “She can’t go with her boyfriend cuz she don’t have no money. I wanted to pour the water out of this bowl and give her the money.” Sandra explained as gently as she could that that young lady was on t.v. “She’s not really here, Honey,” she said.

“What do you mean she’s not here?” Papa demanded. He reached out and patted my arm. “She’s right here.”

I thought he must have been confusing the events of the movie with the fact that my car had overheated on the way over, so I said, “It’s ok, Papa. I already put the water in my car. It’s fine now.”

Papa looked kind of dejected and said, “You mean I can’t even help my own grand-daughter?”

That scene really stuck with me. I shared it with a dear friend of mine afterward, and he helped me to see how that moment was a symbol of things. Life, ever symbolized by water, was slowly flowing out of Papa in those last days I got to spend with him. But as the water poured out of the bowl, a treasure was left behind – the treasure of all of the memories of love and laughter with my Papa. Love overflowing, like that bowl he tried to pour his water into.

The Wizard of Oz said to the Tin Man, “a Heart is not judged by how much you love, but how much you are loved by others.” If that’s true, then when Papa’s heart is weighed in heaven, they’re going to need a truck scale just to cover the love I have for him, because that’s how much love he gave me. So I’m thinking God’s going to have to add a wing on to Heaven to make room for Papa’s heart.