two great grandfathers...granddaddy & papa

  Our son grew up with two wonderful grandfathers; a granddaddy and a papa. Both living in the same town; One, down the driveway the other across the bridge. He was their first grandson, their namesake; carrying both their first and last names.Their pride and joy. His papa living across the bridge in a small little town where I grew up. A pond by his house and the creek across the road. My son loved the pond spending many hours catching catfish. I can just hear my son and his papa now as they fished down the creek, "Son, stay out of the trees," he would say. Because of his big voice, everyone heard it as well.  He was probably no older than 11 years old but he talked to him at times like he was at least forty. They were big buddies; he and his papa. He ate his first oyster with him, cleaned his first fish with him, baited his first hook with him, went on his first turkey hunt with him...a lot of first with this big man with great big hands. He knew that when he grabbed him on the shoulder and looked him in his eyes he was fixing to hear a whole lot of "papa's famous quotes." "I can still hear them," he says now. All those words that didn't mean much then have become, "wise words of wisdom." Words to live by.  My son, like my daddy, was a very good athlete. His papa coached young boys for many years. So, he was just another one of them; coaching him through baseball games, basketball games, and football games. I remember my son dedicating his senior high school football season to his papa. For although his papa never saw him quarterback the football team, he was definitely there in spirit. We all felt him. I remember walking into the hospital after receiving a call to come quickly. Daddy was not doing well. My son arrived before I did. When I got there and walked into the room, daddy was already gone. Mama, like she had done for over fifty years; stood by his side. I touched him one last time. Rubbed his hands. The hands that I had held just a few days before, clipping his nails.  As I turned around to leave the room, my eyes focused on my son, sitting on the floor, up against the wall. The look on his face said it all. He had lost someone that he greatly admired and aspired to be like. Our son grew up so close to his granddaddy's house that he could walk over to visit him whenever he wanted to. He was the kind of child that hardly ever watched cartoons on Saturday morning. Rather he grew up running and playing and using his imagination... the kind of great stuff little country boys are made of. His dad and granddad were both "hands-on" so, there was always something to do. I can just see him now, his granddaddy, as he drove over to the house to pick him up to go "bee-bobbin’." They would go over to his great grandmothers old wooden house and kill bees that were drilling holes in the wood on the porch. I don’t even remember what it looked like. It was one of those "famous gadgets" that he created. All I knew about it was, it worked. He came in the door bragging about their accomplishments. No matter what it was; whether helping out with the tree house to shoot the annoying coyotes or saving day old bread to feed the catfish, he was actively involved. He loved  baseball too; his granddaddy and his dad played, so it was natural for our son to catch the same bug. They pitched, so pitching was in his blood. His granddaddy worked with him; making some kind of contraption with a string and a ball. I can’t even tell you what it was for but it must of helped, for our son had  many years of pitching; high school and college, and even made it to the minor leagues. I can see his granddad and grandmother now in their lawn chair on the sidelines cheering him on; didn’t miss a game until they became to far for them to make them. Years later when he could not make his games, he kept a scrapbook with newspaper articles of his games. He made sure that he kept up with him; one way or the other. I walked into his hospital room after he had had a stroke. I wanted to say hello. It had been a while since I had seen him. I didn't make it in time. What I really wish I could have told him was, "thank you." I wish I could have told them both that, him and papa. Neither grandparent received the miracle of a healed body; more time on this earth. But, there was a miracle...the miracle of time. Time spent planting seeds into a little boy's life. No one can ever take that away. Those memories will last forever. And, without a doubt, I feel confident that he will pass them on one day.

 Thought of this song by Josh McCreery, 
Time rolls by the clock don’t stop, I wish I had a few more drops, of the good stuff, the good times, oh but they just keep on flying, right on by like it ain’t nothing, wish I had a pause button, moments like those Lord knows I’d hit it, yeah sometimes this old life will leave you wishing... that you had five more minutes.

love you always,
mama