I Agree With Papaw

    

Papaw and Me somewhere in Florida (our favorite place to be!) -1987

     Call it destiny.  Call it fate.  Call it the effect of the first grandchild.  Call it the joy of torturing Granny.  Whatever you call it, Papaw and I have always had it--an instant connection that bonded us for the ages.  I love to hear my mama tell of the day I (as a sweet, precious, and perfect baby) would not, for anything or anyone, stop SCREAMING.  My parents, probably completely exhausted, finally called Papaw.  Mom says that when he held me, I miraculously stopped crying.  Just like that.  That was the beginning of a life spent in Papaw's arms.  

This picture makes me feel safe!

     As I have written before, I spent an enormous amount of my childhood growing up in the funeral home/ambulance service world of my grandparents.  How either of them found time to teach me anything while running two busy and unpredictable businesses is completely beyond me, but teach me they did.  
     Some of my best memories of those times come from the morning routine I shared with Papaw.  Did I mention that I ran the place?  There was much work to be done, especially in the mornings.  First, though, we always made time to watch Fraggle Rock.  Priorities, friends, priorities!  While we watched Fraggle Rock, we would typically do one of two activities-a states puzzle or Lego work.  Papaw taught me all about the states, where they were located, and that Nebraska and Kansas were easy to mix up.  He also taught me how to build the perfect garage out of Legos.  

In my backyard in Bicknell

 After the morning's geography or engineering lesson, we would go downstairs to open the funeral home.  If your life, unlike mine, did not resemble Veda's from My Girl, you might not be aware that a funeral home is a social hub.  Each morning, Papaw and I would march downstairs to make the coffee, check the old Coke machine that dispensed free pop, wind the clock, unlock the back door, and get ready for the Coffee Club to arrive.  The Coffee Club (at least that's what I always called them) consisted of several gentlemen from the community--my favorite always being our pastor, Warren Stewart.  I would allow them to have their conversation time for awhile before becoming impatient for breakfast; at that point, Papaw would have to leave his friends and accompany me to the kitchen.  Every morning, he would make me microwave pancakes and eat the sausage (I detested sausage).  One of Papaw's favorite stories on me is of the time I attempted to make my own pancakes.  The older, wiser Lauren decided she could go it alone in the breakfast department.  My younger cousin Rachael, ever the voice of reason, timidly asked me if I thought we should wait.  I did not.  I knew how to do it, after all.  I had watched Papaw make me those pancakes a thousand times.  I pulled them out of the freezer, retrieved my favorite fork out of the drawer (it had a red handle with silver dots on it!), poked holes in the plastic, and put them in the microwave.  Two minutes.  With a deft hand, I punched in 20:00.  Count those zeros for yourself.  Several minutes later, the microwave started smoking.  Heavily.  Papaw was in his upstairs office at the time, so I ran up to him at top speed, yelling, "It's an emergency!  It's an emergency!" followed by Rachael screaming, "What's an emergency?!  What's an emergency?!"

Before my sophomore Christmas dance

     The little girl whose crying only Papaw could hush eventually became a teenager.  Those years were not easy ones for me.  I fell into a crippling depression, and there were nights I wept and wept with my whole body until I hyperventilated.  On the worst nights, the nights when my poor parents had tried everything else (and believe me, they were always there), they would call Papaw.  He would walk over from next door no matter how late it was, quietly come in, walk upstairs, climb into my waterbed, give me a sip of his Diet Rite, and talk to me until I calmed down enough to sleep.  He would leave me the rest of his Diet Rite and, with valiant effort, attempt to climb out of the waterbed, which always made me laugh.  Sometimes he would add a plea he had been giving me since I was little; he wanted me to stop worrying because he would worry enough for the both of us.  


     Anyone who knows my Papaw or has been in even the briefest of conversations with him knows he is the quickest wit there ever was.  He is always there with a funny comeback, an insult for Mom, or an improper thing to say just to make Gran put her head in her hand, shake it, and groan, "Oh, Ralph."  When I was growing up, as he does now, he took every opportunity to aggravate Gran.  When I was little, he either taught me or encouraged me to jump into every disagreement they had with four little words, "I agree with Papaw."  It didn't matter what the topic was.  It didn't matter how I felt.  I agreed with Papaw.  
     He also turned another phrase against Gran, and it stuck for years.  In my younger years, Gran noticed a pattern I developed.  She would tell me where she was going, "Lauren, I have to go unload the flowers now," for example.  I wouldn't be paying attention, then I would panic when I didn't know where she was.  As a result, she began following up every important statement with a question.  "Lauren, did you hear me?"  I soon took that question home to my parents who tired of telling me that yes, in fact, they had heard me.  Papaw thought this new development was delightful, so he encouraged it by engaging me in a "Did you hear me?  Did you HEAR me?!" battle where we would go back and forth asking each other at louder and louder volumes until we dissolved into a fit of laughter at our own brilliance.  

Can you tell I've been sobbing?

   
     The hardest part of my wedding day was seeing my Papaw cry.  I will never forget the way he hugged Matt and said, "Take care of my baby."  It makes me cry every time I think of it.  My biggest fear was that he would think he was losing me.  And the truth is, I will always, always, always be his baby.  It doesn't seem to matter how much older I get, there are always times when I need him and times when he is the only one who understands me.

One of my favorite wedding pictures

     Two weeks ago, my father-in-law passed away.  Suddenly I was the family Papaw was meeting.  I was making arrangements.  I was feeling the weight of grief.  I have always had a great respect for what Papaw does, but never more so than now.  Time and again, I have been told by people who have lost loved ones what a comfort he was and how his compassion and, when called for, his sense of humor helped them through the most difficult times of their lives.  What a gift!  And when this crying little girl was trying to hold her husband up in the hardest hour of his life, you can bet her Papaw was there holding her.

Castillo de San Marcos Fort-St. Augustine, FL

    My Papaw has schooled me on maps, vacations, laughter, history, wars, presidents, and why everything's just better in Florida.  There is an enormous amount of teaching I cannot cover, because I always go back to the moments he has held me together.  It makes me thing of another tale from a Sunday morning too long ago for me to remember.  From what I'm told, it was time to serve communion, and Papaw had a dilemma.  I had fallen asleep on his lap with my head on his shoulder (the shoulder he called "Lauren's" and said was retired when I got bigger). Instead of putting me down and adhering more closely to decorum, he decided to just carry me and serve communion at the same time.  I doubt I even stirred.  Papaw has taught me to love deeply, how to comfort, and where my focus should always be when my hands are full.   This man has the love of my whole heart and a bond I'll never share with anyone else.  I will never stop needing him or that "retired" shoulder.  Did you hear me, Papaw?  

Thanksgiving 2011