My grandfather was admitted to a hospital just over three weeks ago. Since that time I have thought about and written in my journal many memories I have of him.
A funny thing happened as I began writing down these “memories.” I realized I was recording what I learned from him. This wasn’t easy, because you see, my Papaw was a leg-puller from the mountains of eastern Kentucky. I grew up trying to decipher what was true and what was just another mountain tale. Isn’t that how we all grow up, though – trying to figure out what we believe?
The stories he told include the time he explained to my cousin what doctors do with an amputee’s limb. “They take the arm or leg down there to the morgue or over there at the funeral home and throw it in the cooler. You know, to preserve it. That way when the person has an itch, he can go over and scratch it.” At the young age of eight, my traumatized cousin had no idea that it was meant as a joke. She still doesn’t like to talk about it.
Then there was the time he fed me strawberry-rhubarb pie. As I stuffed a large bite into my mouth, he said, “You know rhubarb is poisonous.” I looked up at him, my mouth filled with strawberry goodness. I thought for a second I might casually spit the entire mouthful into my napkin.
“I sure hope I used the right parts of those stalks and leaves,” he said. He shrugged his shoulders and took another bite.
“Papaw, is that true? Is rhubarb really poisonous?” I was in high school and full of doubts about everything, so I definitely had my doubts that he went to all the trouble to find out which parts of the rhubarb to use and which parts not to use.
“Yeah, it’s true. Cotton (that’s a person’s name) told me that yesterday when I bought it. But I figure you can choose to believe or choose not to believe.”
That was his explanation! That was his explanation about most things. We all have a choice.
Yeah, I have many stories of my grandfather that bring a smile to my face. Stories that also make me shake my head in disbelief. And stories that can bring a tear to my eye today because I miss him terribly.
He was a man who sat in his recliner on Thanksgiving and Christmas with a story to tell. Sometimes the story was true, sometimes it was made up, and sometimes the line was blurred between fact and fiction. But you can choose to believe or not to believe.
My grandfather passed away last week at the age of eighty-three. At the visitation, family and friends shared their stories of Papaw. I’m hanging onto every one of those stories and craving more.
A pastor and long-time friend of my Papaw’s spoke at the funeral. He said, “If there was one thing this man would want you to hear today it is this: You can choose to believe and live, or you can choose not to believe and die. But you do have a choice. He would want you to choose to live.”
Being the all-knowing high school kid who wanted to debate and analyze most things, I still chose to eat that strawberry-rhubarb pie. Rhubarb IS poisonous, but I chose to believe in my Papaw that day. Believing and living tastes much sweeter.
Long after turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes make you want to take a nap and hours after the final touchdown is thrown on Thanksgiving Day, retailers everywhere open their doors to the millions of people who are courageous enough and determined enough to brave stores in the hopes to get their hands on the perfect Christmas presents at the lowest prices ANYWHERE. Did you hear me? I said “lowest prices anywhere” and I’ll add, “It’s the last time you’ll see those prices or that one special gift.”
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