On father’s day, I found myself wanting to write something to honor my father. But I felt that I did not have anything new to say, aside from how much I miss him and wondering what he’d think of the life I have built now.
Then Randy Travis’ He Walked on Water began to play through the speakers in my car. I had not heard the song in years. For those that aren’t familiar, number one; you’re really missing out, but number two; a snippet of the lyrics go like this:
Then he tied a cord to the end of a mop, and said, "Son, here's a pony, keep her at a trot." And I'd ride in circles while he laughed alot. Then I'd flop down beside him.
Then it dawned on me that I haven’t written much regarding my grandpa, or “Papaw” as the cousins called him growing up. I aim to fix that with this post.
The legend goes that my grandpa Wales (a true Scot’s name, if there ever was one) left his Kentucky home at an early age. One of those stories that starts with a disagreement with his father, and only having 18 dollars in his pocket. Now, I don’t mean to gloss over that, but I do not know the details that would enable me to share it with anyone. Although, knowing my papaw, I’m sure it wasn’t lacking for entertainment. Beyond that, I heard rumors that as a young man he was just as fond of swearing as he was of drinking. It wasn’t until much later in life that he had to give up one of those due to his health. Spoiler alert, I never saw him drink a drop. I didn’t find out until much later that he had a wife and several children before my Mamaw Betty. Now I have touched on these things in the most superficial of ways in previous writings. And although I would love to write about them in depth, I can’t because I’m do not know the full stories. But then again those taboo acts don't much concern me.
Further, while some of his past is salacious it does not inform who my Papaw was to me. The first substantial memory I have of my grandpa is sitting in my grandparent’s backyard. I was about four or five and was learning to tie my shoes. I waddled up to my papaw and showed him the perfectly made bows atop each of my K-mart purchased footwear. He bent down to see for himself, and his response was a huge belly laugh that made him slap his knee.
I frowned, puzzled, as my Papaw called out to my mom, “Sherry, your boy’s got his shoes tied...but they’re on the wrong feet!” He knelt down to my level again, “David do your shoes feel tight here and here...” he ran his thumb and forefinger along the inner and outer edge of my foot. I nodded. “Take ‘em off. “ I did as I was told. “Switch ‘em.” Again, I listened to papaw.
Once done, he nodded in approval, still sort of grinning, “Atta boy. Ya know most of the kids didn’t learn this until they were a year older.” My papaw, head adorned with a red and white V.F.W. trucker hat that was at least four times my age back then looked down on my with some kind of pride.
My papaw wasn’t a hard man, at least not by the time I knew him. But a compliment from him, even if subtle, was a rare thing. As such, I soaked it up.
This was the man that would go on to give me my first pocket knife. He also showed me how to tend a garden and change the spark plugs in a car. And truthfully, I can’t remember the last time I had to do either of those things, but if I had to, I could do it and many other things because he took the time to show me.
So this one is dedicated to Papaw...
If the story's told, only heaven knows. But his hat seemed to me like an old halo. And although his wings, they were never seen. I thought that he walked on water.