Today he would have turned 88.And even though he's been gone for 3 years, he still remains the most influential man in my nearly 34 years of living.
My grandma called him "Jimmy Joe" or "sweetie pie", but I called him Pappaw.
He was an old school man. Having been raised through the Great Depression, he was not only frugal but also extremely resourceful. He saved money, cat food cans, twist ties off of bread, and peanut butter jars. And had a use for every single one of them.
It was quite obvious that he came from Cherokee blood -- with his coal black hair, deep chestnut skin and distinct cheek bones. He was a man of few words but knew when to raise his voice. Stern, but gentle. Impressive, but humble.
I lived with my grandparents throughout different parts of my life. When I was born, my mother took me home to her house -- their house -- where we shared the first bedroom on the left just up the stairs. We lived there until I was a toddler. Even though I was small, I can still remember the smell of the fireplace or the feel of the felt on the pool table. I can remember the smell of sawdust in the air and the sound of the seagulls. And in my mind I have etched a picture of the dashboard of his Volkswagon Beetle and can feel the panting of his dog, Sugar Babe, on my cheek. To this day, that place still feels like home to me.Then, after my parents divorced in the 5th grade, we moved into their overly gigantic house on Pearl Street. There he taught me to carve with wood in his basement workshop, and grow potatoes in the backyard garden. The same house that I got a Casio keyboard for Christmas, where my grandma taught me to play rummy. That house was the best house for hide-and-seek...even for friends that have snuck in to help you with homework. The upstairs hallway smelled like his aftershave and the kitchen always smelled of grandma's oatmeal cookies.
And when I separated from my husband, with a daughter of my own, I moved into their spare bedroom until I was on my feet again. By then, they had scaled down to a smaller house, but still, somehow, managed to cram all that comfort into it's four walls. Comfort that was served to me inside his fish chowder and green beans, or in an apple sliced by his pocket knife at the picnic table. And the countless cups of coffee.
It was the world's best coffee to me -- and to him. And if you would have asked us, we both would have told you that. Except grandma hated it. "You could pave a street with that stuff" she'd say.It was an old coffee pot -- not the electrical kind -- but the kind you'd use on the stove, or over an open campfire. It was made of aluminum and was lovingly covered with dings and scratches. That pot showed its age like rings of a tree or birthday candles. It only made about 5 cups of coffee at a time and, depending on the conversation, was forced to pull double shifts.
It was over those long, strong cups of coffee that we tried to solve the world's problems. We would chat about nothing......and everything. He'd listen as I'd cry over relationships gone bad, occasionally putting his worn hand over mine in his quiet way of saying 'it'll be ok'. We'd laugh at stories of my ornery mom as a kid, that resembled me as a kid, that resembled my daughter at the time. It was over those same cups of coffee where he confessed of being "sick and tired of being sick and tired" a month before he passed away.
The Internet isn't big enough for me to list all of the things I've learned from him. It's a list far bigger than I. Some in depth lessons and some simple. Most of them taught with a cup of coffee in our hands.
I know most of the waterfowl by watching his steady hand paint their feathers.
I learned to appreciate fine wood --what it feels like under your fingertips and the smell of it running through a band saw. I find myself running my hand over table tops and dressers, smiling at the thought of him teaching me about the grain.
He gave me his secret to his famous green beans. But I can't tell you what it is.
I can't eat a tomato without thinking about his massive garden.....the two of us, sitting on overturned 5 gallon buckets, salt and pepper shakers in hand, eating tomatoes right off the vine. "You have to come out here and talk real sweet to 'em. That's how you get 'em to grow the good, juicy, ones."
He taught me about failure, and that it's okay. "If you don't ever make a mistake you'll never learn."
I learned what it felt like to be poked in the elbow with a fork when I had my elbows on the dinner table. He was big on manners.
I learned what unconditional love was -- how to give it and how to receive it -- by his example. And about respect -- by his example. How to love your spouse -- by his example.
And even though he's passed on -- probably sitting on a heavenly river bank, fishing with my mom -- he still continues to teach me. I'm passing his lessons onto my own children. Lessons that they'll pass on to children of their own.
That coffee pot held his legacy. I'm just the spout.
