Papa

A patriarch is the male head of a family, its leader.  The man who sets the tone for everyone by his words and his actions.  It is easy to see what is important to my grandfather, who has always been known as "Papa":  his life is a study in hard work, family unity, and Christian service.  One of my earliest memories of Papa is attending his "retirement" party, although I've never known him to be idle for a day.  When, in his 60's, he stopped working for Westinghouse, he continued to run the 100 acre farm he lived on with my grandma.  In the winter months, when the farm was tended by my uncle and cousin, my grandparents went south, to the border of Mexico and Texas, but not to enjoy the moderate temperatures and slow down.  Those months were spent building schools and churches, meeting with other "retired" folks, and teaching the children of Renosa.  When I was in high school, they took this missionary work up a notch, spending a year in Honduras running a mission house.  It was the year of the earthquake that ripped that small country in half, and we watched on our TV as news reports came in of monumental damage, lives lost, and we wondered if Grandma and Papa were somewhere in the rubble.  But not too long after, they were able to call on a sat phone and let us know that they were okay, just managing a little differently now that many roads were cut off and buildings fallen to the ground.  Not exactly peaceful, easy living for a couple in their 70's.

Surrounded by their children and spouses

One of seven children, Papa always tried to make contact with his siblings on their birthdays, dispersed as they were across the country.  He attended family reunions for several different offshoots of his family tree.  He also came through Dallas to pick up my sister and I on his way to his brother Paul's funeral in El Paso.  I remember that Papa drove the whole way, an 8-10 hour drive, at least, and he was not as sensitive to my 7 year old entreaties to make bathroom stops as my parents were on such long trips.  Nonetheless, we made it without my bladder exploding, and went through the burial ritual.  The only thing I remember about my great-uncle's funeral was his granddaughter, a girl close to my age, with whom I'd been playing Barbies earlier in the day, sobbing into her mother's shoulder and crying out, "He's my grandpa!"  I wondered at the change that had come over her, and of course, couldn't understand her grief, as my own grandpa was sitting down the row from me, very much alive.  And really, if I'm being introspective and philosophical, that is the defining characteristic of my Papa, that he was there.  He was there, in our kitchen, drinking coffee and playing card games with us on his annual trip down to Renosa.  He was there at Christmas, watching his children and grandchildren open their gifts.  He was there in my living room, as I played the first song I learned on the clarinet for him.  He was there at my high school graduation, and again for college.  He was at the weddings of each of his grandchildren.  He was there, in my hospital room, the day after I gave birth to my first son.  He was there, six years ago, helping us move furniture into our new house.  And he was there, just last September, at Michael's first birthday party.

Christmas 2009

When my mom went into labor with me on April 3rd, some part of her mind must have disengaged from the pain and the relief that at long last, the baby was coming out, and thought about her dad, who was celebrating his 55th birthday at his home in Pennsylvania.  I think she was pleased at the idea of her daughter and her dad sharing a birthday, but I wasn't.  True to form, I stubbornly stayed inside her until the next afternoon, already determined to be original.  The fact that our birthdays were a day apart didn't seem to change anything, however, and we frequently celebrated together.  The first was on my fourth birthday, which we spent sharing a beach house with Grandma and Papa in Virginia Beach.  I don't remember much about that except for the house being on stilts, which was a novel concept.  There is a frequently told story from that trip, though, about my burgeoning vocabulary, in which I told Papa to "stop aggravating me!"  He said, "You don't know what that word means."  And I responded, "It means 'to fight'."  Another birthday spent together was my 23rd and his 78th, at which time I was a newlywed who bundled up with her husband and parents and drove to a Cracker Barrel halfway between Papa's farm and my new apartment.

Spending a snowy birthday together 2005



Our lives have only overlapped for 31 years, and though I've heard stories about his time as a young man, turning in bottles to get a nickel and heading downtown to watch a movie, playing basketball in high school and sailing in the Navy as a young man, becoming a father to five children and watching them grow, what I have seen is who these early experiences shaped him to be.  I know him as a man of consistency, someone who loves to sing and has a pretty good sense of humor.  I have seen the pride he takes in his family and a job well done.  I am awed by his knowledge of planting, growing, and harvesting, caring for animals and running all the equipment required.  That is what I remember, that is what Papa means to me.