Holy crap! This Sunday is Father’s Day! I guess I need to go to the store soon. This isn’t one of those pre-written deals I was talking about yesterday. I do have one in the can. I’ll just wait for the right moment to spring it on the world. It’s another one of those serious topics that the world faces. I’ll probably get it up next week. In the mean time, I’m going to try to remember a few good stories and write them to share from time to time.
Today, in honor of Father’s Day, I want to look back on my childhood. I want to share a little about one of the men that was the most influential on my life. My granddad, Papaw.
My grandparents were a huge part of my childhood. They were always around. My grandparents were 42 & 43 years old when I was born, so they were young enough to enjoy us. Every holiday meant a day at Granny & Pap’s house, eating and playing waffle ball. They went to the beach with us a time or two. We all went to Atlanta together to see the Braves play. We took an annual trip to Memphis to go to the zoo. We went camping in Waterloo every summer. We spent every afternoon and most Saturdays at their house.
Papaw was always there, teaching us the things that granddad’s are supposed to teach their grandsons. He taught us how to fish; how to pitch a tent; that cemeteries are called “bone yards;” “Blood and Guts” is the password for everything; how to make a realistic fake cut on your arm; the words to “Bill Grogan’s Goat.” You know, the essentials a young boy needs to correctly and completely irritate their Mom.
Some of my fondest childhood memories involve camping in Waterloo. We would stay up late into the night (it was probably 10:00, but it seemed late to us) and Pap would tell us ghost stories. Then he would end up having to sleep in our tent because we were too scared to sleep. In the morning we would hop in his boat and head across the slough for breakfast at The Smokehouse. Then it was back to camp for a day of fishing, swimming, and continuously sinking and capsizing his boat so we could play under it and jump off the bottom. I have a permanent reminder of that particular activity on top of my foot.
We always had a great time on trips with my granddad. We took numerous trips to Atlanta to see the Braves and go to Six Flags. They mostly run together, but there was at least one memorable moment. I was 8 or 9 years old. It was one of the few times I remember Pap getting mad at my brother and I.
We all went to Atlanta for the weekend. When the trip was over my brother and I decided to ride home with my grandparents. They had a 1982 brown & orange Ford Crown Victoria. We loved it. We especially loved listening to “Big John” on the 8 Track player. The car had reading lights for the back seat trimmed in chrome. We loved to play with them. It was broad daylight, but we wanted them burning.
After an hour or so in the car I was ready to turn off my light. When I reached up to turn off my light my hand slipped and hit the metal trim. It was hot. It was Arizona-asphalt-in-August hot. I let out a little scream, and my brother laughed. As a child I had a bit of a temper. As tempers go, I would put mine at the time on par with Bobby Knight. My brother’s laughter sparked a fire. I instinctively grabbed his arm and thrust his hand onto the blistering metal of the reading light.
I’m not sure we had ever seen my granddad really mad before that day. We experienced the full force on that Georgia highway. He screamed. He threatened. He did everything but stop the car and make us walk home. He threatened to do it, but he didn’t.
We rode in complete silence for the next couple of hours. My brother was mad at me. I was still mad at him. Papaw was mad at both of us. My grandmother was mad at all of us. No one wanted to speak. When we got to Birmingham, I was starving. I was afraid to ask if we could stop; for all I knew Pap was still boiling. Suddenly we pulled into Pasquale’s Pizza in Gardendale. We silently exited the car went into the restaurant and sat down. My granddad ordered pizza and garlic bread (our favorite). Then he ordered extra garlic bread and gave us quarters fro the jukebox and arcade games. We knew all was forgiven.
We lived about 5 blocks from my grandparents for several years. We spent every afternoon after school at their house. We would play outside for a while, then head inside to watch The Flintstones and Tom & Jerry on TBS. Around 4:30 Pap would come home from work. At that point we fell into our routine. Pap would sit in his easy chair and I would plop down beside him. We would spend the rest of the afternoon watching The Carol Burnett Show, The Jeffersons, Bewitched, or whatever reruns happened to be playing on TBS. We did this for years. I loved it. I felt safe sitting snuggly between Papaw and the wooden arm of his chair.
As the years passed I had to squeeze in instead of plop. I still remember the last time I sat in that chair with him. I was 12. I was wearing a purple shirt. He sat down and I came to sit with him. As he was scooting over to make room for me to squeeze in he said, “Scott, this may be the last time we can sit in this chair together.”
He was right. The chair got too small and I got too big. Maybe not physically too big, but a teenage boy doesn’t want to spend his days sharing a rocking chair with his granddad. I miss it. I’m actually a little misty and sniffly just thinking about it. I am glad I have the memory, though.
I spent a good bit of my teenage years with them also. Not as much as when I was younger, but I still spent time with them. I always spent the week of July 4th with them at a campground in Tennessee. We would fish, swim, watch the fireworks, cook hot dogs on the fire, and sit up late into the night listening to Pap tell ghost stories. They were the same stories he’d told us for years, but they were still great. And they were still scary.
My granddad almost disowned me when I went to Auburn for college. He didn’t speak to me for a year or so. It was a playful not talking to me, though. I got him an Auburn shirt for Christmas. I think he wore it once or twice. He did come to my graduation. He complained about being in Auburn the entire weekend, but I knew he was proud to be there.
I don’t see Papaw as much as I used to nor as much as I’d like. It’s my own fault. I don’t take the time to go by and visit. I can’t wait to go see him Sunday. Maybe I’ll try to sit in his chair with him. Happy Father’s Day, Pap.
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