Papaw

My earliest memories of Papaw aren’t actually of a man, but a chicken. Thousands of chickens. You see, among a million other things, Papaw was a chicken farmer. Until he “retired,” Papaw raised chickens for several poultry companies. He’d get up incredibly early every morning and tend the chickens. And then the cows. And then, as I said, the million other things that are required for keeping a farm up and running – especially a farm in rural Arkansas.


In those days, I thought of Papaw as the strong and silent type. Perhaps it was because I thought he could do anything and shouldn’t be bothered with small children when he had a farm to run. Perhaps Mamaw’s gregariousness just made it seem like Papaw didn’t talk much. Perhaps it was because he liked to watch TV with the volume on mute.

No matter, when I was six or seven, Papaw was my strong and silent grandfather.

Then, when I was eight or nine, Papaw became my knight in a plaid, pearl snap button shirt when he cut me out of a tangled mess that may or may not have involved a rope swing and my long hair. Papaw was my scissors-wielding hero.

In my junior high years, Papaw was the only one, save Jeffrey, who would take those slimy and slippery fish off my hook when we went fishing. When I was 13, Papaw was my fishing buddy.

And then Mamaw died. And Papaw outdid every romance legend I'd ever heard of – even my favorite,  Mr. Darcy. Just before we laid her down, Papaw slipped Mamaw’s wedding band on to his little finger and wore it for her. When I was 16, Papaw had what was my idea of true and everlasting love.

A couple of years later, I realized that Papaw wasn’t invincible. But could be hurt, and did hurt. I never saw it, he never mentioned it, but all of a sudden he needed a hand with running the farm. He sold his cows, stopped fishing, and started relying on others for some of the things he used to do on his own. As the years passed, I heard that awful c-word more and more during hushed conversations. When I was twenty, Papaw had cancer.

Last year, about this time, Papaw decided that he was ready to have constant care and be waited on hand and foot so went to live at Mom and Dad’s. By that point, he needed a wheelchair on bad days, a walker on most days, and oxygen all the time. He went to Mom and Dad’s and took over. Mom cooked what he wanted to eat. Daddy relinquished his hold over the remote control and Papaw became the center of our familial world. When I was 23, Papaw was burdened by pain, burdened by his dependency on others, and burdened by the weighty task of picking the right TV show. But he still laughed. He still smiled. And he still cracked jokes like he was sitting around with his friends listening to live music at the local hot spot – you know, the local hot spot for 80 year olds in the middle of nowhere, Arkansas. A year ago, Papaw was burdened and weary – but not ready.

Last week, Papaw was ready. He was tired of this world and the heavy load he carried. He was ready to see Mamaw again, ready to walk on his own two feet, and ready to be free from his burdens.

Five days ago, Papaw left this world because he didn’t need it anymore.



Now, when I’m 24, my papaw is gone.



Through the years, he’s been my grandfather, my hero, my friend, my perfect love story. And he’s been sick. He’s been burdened.

But now, now he is FREE. He is no longer bound by the troubles and pain of this world but has risen from the ashes of this life to live eternally. Right now, he’s probably mowing the grass that runs beside those streets of gold. Or maybe he’s playing Dominos with Mamaw, Aunt Courtney, and Uncle Marlin. Or maybe he’s sitting back tapping his foot to the sound of the Heavenly chorus. But you know what he’s not doing?

He’s not riding in a wheelchair.

He’s not wondering if he’ll be able to get out of bed himself in the morning.

And he’s certainly not in pain.



I don’t know that I’ll ever not hurt when I think of him. But I know that I’m going to smile too. I’m going to remember his buttermilk and cornbread suppers. I’m going to remember his crush on Paula Deen. I’m going to remember that my papaw is in Paradise.

And I’m going to smile.

There will be more tears, I have no doubt. But there will also be laughter and smiles at the memories. AND THERE WILL BE PEANUT PATTIES. They won’t be as good as his. And if I make them, we may have to eat them with a spoon, but as long as I have my memories AND peanut patties, Papaw won’t really be gone.

He’ll just be at the farm – waiting for us.