He was born in 1946, two days after Christmas, the third son of an Appalachian coal miner and his bitch wife. You may think I’m being too harsh on my great grandmother - but trust me, if you’d known her, you’d agree. West Virginia was a beautiful place to grow up, poor as they were, and Papaw told me stories all the time of his upbringing. He got into making moonshine shortly before he married my Gramma in 1964, when he was 17 and she was 16. I saw the picture once, of them on their wedding day. She was wearing a tea length, cream-colored dress, her curly brown hair pinned back and swept off her neck, and little lace gloves. He was wearing gray slacks and a mismatched jacket. At 17, he already had calluses on his hands and dirt in every pore, no matter how hard he scrubbed, from working in the mines with his daddy. He told me, when he showed me the picture, that right after they’d gotten married, he’d gone right back to work that day. He worked everyday to give “Annie” (my Gramma) everything she deserved.
At some point, West Virginia lost its luster and they moved to Texas before their first child, my aunt, was born. Not too much later, their second child, my father, came around too. Around that time, Papaw gave up moonshining and got sober himself. Once he left rehab, he never touched alcohol again. Coal mines aren’t a thing here on the gulf coast, so he moved into the next most common working poor job we have here - a refinery plant. He worked at the same plant until he retired, some 40-ish years later. That job paid for him to buy a little three bedroom house with a shed, paid for the tools he used to maintain that house and yard, paid to keep his sweet wife at home to raise their kids and grow her rose garden and plant a pear tree in the middle of the backyard. That job paid for his kids school clothes and shoes, for all the food that filled their bellies - and they never went hungry, that was a rule he had from his own time as a poor child in the Appalachian region - paid for Annie to go and get her hair done at the salon down the road every other week, paid for the small donations they could muster at church. And when Annie got sick, it paid for her treatment and surgery, and eventually, her funeral. He taught himself how to make rosaries, and made her one every day from the time he retired to the time she passed away.
Of course, all of that happened long before I came around (Except her death. She passed when I was 13). He was still working when I was born, though. I grew up in the same house that he raised my daddy and aunt in. He helped my mama put my bedroom together, bought a swingset for the backyard, and built a playroom add-on next to the laundry room, attached to what would become my bedroom. He and Gramma helped to baby proof the house, bought toys and books and clothes, and talked my terrified parents down a hundred times over.
When my aunt announced the birth of her second child, mama was devastated to find out it was a girl. Now my aunt, daddy’s older sister, had given birth to both the first grandson and the first granddaughter, a month before I would be born (well, really, it was three months before I was supposed to be born, but I surprised them two months early). Mama said she sat on the swingset out in the backyard and cried. Papaw came out to talk to her, and asked her what was wrong. She said she was scared that I wouldn’t be special to him, since I wouldn’t be the first granddaughter. Papaw looked her dead in the eye and told her every baby that came into his life was special, and I was no different. He would love me just as much as the first two, and he’d love every one that came after just as much as the ones before. Years later, when I told this story back to him (as mama had told it to me), he told me a little bit more. “She was my special girl, your mama,” he said, adjusting his cannula and stopping to catch his breath. “Annie liked her well enough, but I loved that girl. Day she married your dad, she became my daughter, and I loved her just as much as my own baby girl. She’s still my special girl, tell her that next time you see her.” I did tell her, and she cried.
I was born two months too soon, and he was there at the hospital as soon as his shift was over. He sat and prayed with my mama, he gave money to my daddy so he could call off work to be with me and mama. When the doctor predicted I’d die, he told me I wasn’t allowed to. I don’t remember it, but he’s told the story back to me so many times that I feel like I can. I was in an incubator, in a diaper so small he said it couldn’t have been any bigger than a tissue (according to him), and I wasn’t crying or anything. Just fighting for every breath. And he said he told me I wasn’t allowed to die, because he hadn’t been allowed to hold me yet, and I would break his heart if I died before he could hold me.
I’m sure my survival is far more likely because of the dedicated team of nurses and doctors that took care of me around the clock for the next month, but my Papaw believes it’s because he told me to stay. Maybe both are true. I have so many memories of sitting in his lap while he learned how to use a computer, watching tv with him, laying on his chest and listening to his heartbeat. He always smelled like gasoline and tobacco, which are both considered extremely acrid smells, but they smelt like home and comfort to me. I remember how he used to hand me a comb and some oil and let me comb his beard and mustache, and even when I got snagged on knots he never yelled or gave any sign of discomfort. I remember the silver watch he wore, an anniversary gift from my gramma to celebrate their first year together. His hair was already thinning when I came around, but it still had a little curl to it, and he let me comb that too.
I remember how he used to take me to the park in his pick up truck when the fair was in town, how he’d buy me a caramel apple even though I would just eat the caramel part. He always ate the apple for me. When he went to the grocery store, he’d go to the candy section and pick out all the banana Runts to bring home to me in a little bag. To this day, I can’t eat banana Runts without thinking of him. Even when he moved up to Tennessee and I only saw him once every few years, he made it a point to go down to the store and buy me all the banana Runts he could find, enough for me to snack on for the next week.
When I came out of the closet, I expected him to stop loving me. To tell me that it was wrong, that God would be angry, that he was angry. I was so scared of his reaction that I hid it from him for almost ten years after I told everyone else. He found out when my dad accidentally mentioned my girlfriend at the time, and he called me to talk about it. “Monkey,” he said, because that was his nickname for me, “tell me about this girl.” And I did. I told him about how her smile made my insides feel like melted butter, how she smelled like chocolate dipped strawberries and laughed at all my jokes. “Sounds like she makes you feel like Annie made me feel.” He told me. Gramma had already been gone for awhile at this point, and he sounded sad when he said it, but I knew what he meant. “Don’t be afraid to tell me something ever again, baby girl. You’re always my Monkey, and I love you no matter what.”
Last time I saw him was in 2018, a few months after that phone call. He was already pretty sick then, and a little confused. He told me probably a hundred times that I was his Monkey and he loved me so much. I thought it was because he forgot he already told me, but now I wonder if he knew I wouldn’t see him again and he wanted to make sure he said it enough times to fill up my life when he was gone. He wouldn’t let me comb his beard this time, but he sat and played checkers with me for awhile, then candyland with me, my sister, and my dad.
Papaw wasn’t perfect. But he loved me, and I loved him. He helped shape who I am, taught me kindness and steadiness to counteract my chaos. I got the news yesterday that he isn’t expected to make it another week, and I’m a wreck. He always told me that as long as you love someone, as long as you remember them, they’re not gone. So I thought I’d tell y’all about him, and maybe y’all could love him and remember him too. Thanks for letting me ramble.
