Remembering Papa Today

This weekend at a Memorial Day BBQ, I found myself laughing and telling stories about Papa.  Mostly it was all of his old sayings and jokes and one liners, the ‘Why Are Firetrucks Red’ thing and the cute and funny Papisms that this weekend still made people who had never even met Papa laugh belly laughs, and I just sat there thinking, you should’ve heard him tell it.

So, just in case you don’t know Papa, here are a few of them:

1.       “Emmy, the more you stir the shit, the more it stinks.”

2.       “You know I tried that new Viagra, but it turns out that it’s bad for Grandma’s health.”

“Why’s that, Papa?”

“Well, every time I took it, Grandma got a headache.”

3.       “When you’re tellin a story, you just gotta have a good ending.  I always know where I’m going to end up when I stand up to give a talk.  I don’t always know how I’m gonna get there, but I know where I’m going to end up.”

I’m not doing him justice as I type this, and I never do.  I don’t think anything but knowing him can do him justice.  My brother said something at the funeral home that explained it, and I wish I could remember the exact words, but it was something about no matter what relationship you had with him, no matter what background you had come from, if you spent any amount of time with Papa at all, you walked away from that time with him feeling like you were special, knowing that he loved you, knowing that you were special to him.

Papa was a hunter, golfer, inventor, etc., but I don’t really remember him doing all of the stuff he loved to do.  I just remember him sitting, waiting for someone to come along and talk with him.  Everyone else would start a conversation.  We’d be talking and talking.  He would sit there quiet as could be, just like a fisherman or a hunter waits quietly, patiently for the right moment.  The hunter who knows what he’s doing knows that the bait is important, but timing is essential.  There I would be, jabbering on and on to Grandma about school or kids or friends or whatever, when Papa would say something like, “You ever hear of Buster Brown shoes?” 

It would seem misplaced at first and Grandma would say something like, “Jim!  She was talking about her friend in Grand Rapids!”

He would just look at her and smile.  His eyes would twinkle, and he would turn back to me and finish his story connecting Grand Rapids or friendship back to the story of Buster Brown Shoes.

And I would feel like I had been given a nugget of wisdom from Papa, who showed me so much love by taking the time to sit with me and tell stories. 

I didn’t like the part of the funeral where they closed the casket lid (aside from the laughing we all had to do when Grandma tried to slam it shut).  I hated it mostly because I’m claustrophobic, but also because it seemed so… final.  No more twinkle eyes.  No more Santa-like belly laughs.  No more one-liners or flawless comedic timing.  No more simplistic Papa wisdom.  No more Papa hugs.  No more “Oh Emmy.”s 

But then  the priest started talking about how it looked like he was in a turkey blind (his casket was camouflaged) and that made me feel better.  So I started thinking about how Papa’s probably up in heaven holding the baby I miscarried, telling stories to the cousin I lost about some of the silly things his mama did when she was younger.

And I starting trying to picture Papa coming into heaven, and I imagined God to be a lot like Papa.  Content to just sit and listen to you talk and talk and talk about what’s happening and how you feel about it even if you’re angry and scared until the timing is just right for Him to tell a story about something that may or may not seem to be related to what you were talking to Him about, and then you walk away feeling more loved than anyone else has ever felt just because you got to sit with Him and talk for a while.