What I love about my Papa, who would have celebrated his 89th birthday today:
His smell. He smelled like a mixture of Levi Garrett chewing tobacco, Gillette foamy shave (as he called it), leather, hay, and tractor oil. This memory and description is still very vivid and I can smell him even as I type these very words. He always wore either this hat, a brown cap with cows on it, or a straw hat. Except to church.
He was self made. Nothing was ever handed to him. Everything he ever had was earned. He always worked hard for what he had. He always made sure that ends met. Whether this meant working well into the night, doing dishes, laundry, and changing diapers, driving across three counties to pick someone up- we could always rely on him.
He loved. In general, he loved everyone. Most times he didn’t meet a stranger. If he did, he was usually their friend within minutes.
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| Papa and his "baby" girl- my Mom (before she became a lunatic- I'm not kidding. She really is.) |
My grandma has had severe arthritis for a number of years. Before the modern medicine that she uses today, he used to get up at 3 a.m. to wrap her legs in hot bath towels, plastic bags, and heating pads so that the pain throughout the day would be bearable. He also turned on the radio to the local station and brought her a cup of coffee every.single.morning. without fail- even as he was dying and could literally barely breathe. Only did he stop when he was either in the hospital, or completely incapable. I will NEVER forget this. I can still smell the coffee brewing and hear KIVY in the background of my dreams.
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| Mr. and Mrs. Ward Cleaver themselves... |
After “wrapping her up”, some mornings he would drive fifteen miles to our neighboring town to bring my brother and I donuts for breakfast. The mornings he didn’t do that, he usually cooked breakfast.
He used to shove money in my grandmas purse, then shove us out the door- making an occasional shopping trip for the girls mandatory. Now that I am a wife and mommy, I know how important those times were.
He scratched. I mean, that is what he called it. He always had a pencil (usually a carpenter’s pencil) behind his ear and would scratch notes and scribbles on anything – a paper bag, receipt, the kitchen counter, the dining table cloth… whatever was within reach. This was usually done while he was on the phone. And, if you ever walked into the room and asked what he was doing his reply would most likely be, "OH, just scratchin'..."
Speaking of phones, he would often call and check on all of his friends, daughters, uncles, aunts, and neighbors- just to lend an ear and spread a kind word.
Back to scratching: I still have notes that he wrote to me. One is on an old envelope. One is on a one dollar bill, one on a two dollar bill. A couple on paper sacks. I cherish them. He also wrote love notes to my grandma, telling her on a pretty regular basis that she was the best thing that ever happened to him.
He was saved when he was in his 30’s and loved the Lord with all his might. There’s not a doubt in my mind that he is sitting in Heaven this very minute, chewing tobacco and scratching on something. He went to church up until the very end. But, instead of forcing us to go, he simply encouraged it by his actions. He gave an example that was easy and natural to follow.
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| Papa and his middle daughter, my Aunt E as I affectionately refer to her throughout this blog |
He fought for our country. Although he was only 17 at the time of the WWII draft, he stretched the truth on his actual birthdate. He quit school, left his home, and voluntarily put his life on the line for the freedom of his country.
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| Davis, on left, with Smith |
Despite his lack of formal education – he was so smart. He was an extreme self-educator. I got this from him. If there was something to be learned, he taught himself. Watching him do this very thing has driven me, more than once, to do it for myself. He loved to read. I loved to watch him read. He could get lost in a book for hours.He could tell you anything about the land and how to live off of it. He taught himself to speak some German and Czechoslovakian while he was in the war.
He instilled in me a great love of the outdoors – hunting, fishing, gardening, mowing the grass - something I share with my husband and boys to this day.
He and Granny made an ultimate sacrifice by raising two of their grandchildren – my brother and I. Raising two kids in your twenties and thirties is hard enough and they dove into it in their fifties – I just can’t imagine. But, they did it- and they did it well. I never once heard a complaint, though I am sure there were some- especially during the teenage years.
He introduced me to my first horse, first rifle, first tractor, and first stick shift. He also took me fishing for the first time and taught me to ride a bike. He did all of the things that my real father chose to opt out of, and he did them with grace and compassion.
This list could continue for days with all of the little things – from driving me to practices, cheering me on at everything I ever attempted, or the times he let me use his truck (when I didn't have my own) and he drove the lawnmower to the postoffice, the school, the grocery store... to get his errands done, the ugly little green frog broach that I can’t let go of, and the countless number of hugs and I love yous that I received from him. He was and is a special man. I can’t wait till the day we meet again. I love you Papa!
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