Mary Poppins Monday: Papa

This is the first Christmas where we will be all alone out here in Wisconsin. I actually prefer to have Christmas at home. I want my kids to have memories of Christmas at home, but this year no one is coming to share it with us.

That wouldn't be so bad, but I am feeling a little melancholy because so many close friends have moved away, and the only friend that I hang out with here on a regular basis is out of state. Even if I were brave enough to call my other friends here, who are all as phone shy as I am, they all have their husbands home for Christmas week. Seth is working all week. He has never worked Christmas week but he used so much time off for scouting trips and the youth trip to Nauvoo, and as a result he will be stuck in the office until Christmas Eve. I am so proud of all the sacrifices he makes for his callings but I will miss having him with me this week.

Then, late last night, I read Margie's blog and learned that Ryan was sick and they were unable to make the surprise visit home for the holidays that they had hoped for. I so badly wish they could make that trip.

I was left feeling torn. This is going to be a great Christmas. There are gifts stuffed in every crevice of my house. Boxes have been pouring in by the truckload and I feel so loved. It will be a great Christmas for Ryan and Margie too. They will be together, united in their faith, and celebrating the triumphs it has brought them this year. I know there is so much to be thankful for, and I am, but I was still feeling a little emotional.

I tried to go to bed at 2:00 this morning but instead I started thinking about my grandpa, Papa. I just kept thinking. I can recall so many memories and details about Papa. I lost Papa on September 15, 1989. 20 years ago. But for some reason, the memories I have of Papa are some of the clearest and easiest to recall. As my mind strolled down memory lane it suddenly hit me forcefully. I know why I can bring Papa back so effortlessly. That is the gift that Heavenly Father left me when he had to call Papa home so soon.I don't know why I needed to know that in the wee hours of this morning, but that is the understanding that came. Unfortunately sleep did not accompany this revelation. It brought with it more crying and more thinking.

I miss Papa. It has been 20 years and I am sure I scarcely resemble the 13 year old girl I was back then, but I still miss Papa.

Here are some of the Papa memories I was laughing and crying about last night.

Papa was silly. Papa would rearrange his false front teeth to make us laugh. Papa would tease me by introducing me as his date, and further embarrass me by sticking out his cheek and asking for a "big smooch". Papa always called Nonnie "the boss" and that was silly to me too. Papa loved to watch Laker's games and when they would play the Pistons he would make us all gather round for the pre-game kiss between Isiah Thomas and Magic Johnson. He thought that was so funny.

Papa was quirky. He drank buttermilk with his dinner. He always had JuJu Fruits stashed all over the house. He loved to watch The People's Court with Judge Whopner. If I didn't want to watch with him, he would watch alone, but come find me after each case to tell me how Whopner had ruled. Then he would go back for more and leave me with a butterscotch disc. I hate butterscotch discs but he was so happy to share that I had to take it and even seem excited to get one more after the next ruling.

Papa was a hard worker. He was one of those people who refused to fail. He worked very hard and became very well respected and successful.

Papa was honest. Every time we went out to dinner he would check the bill with a calculator. He almost always found an error, often in favor of the restaurant. He would alert the waiter and have the necessary change made. The slight variation in the bill was insignificant, but Papa liked things to be precise. He liked things to be fair.

Papa was strict. The little things drove Papa crazy. He hated that I asked for a toaster strudel for breakfast every morning. At one point he forbade me from "eating cake" for breakfast anymore. He blew his top once when Valerie picked up her hamburger patty and ate it with her hands. He nearly skinned us with his words once when he asked us to sit on the davenport so that he could vacuum. We headed for the front porch. He thought we were being disrespectful and going out to play. After he lectured us extensively about listening and obeying, we explained. We had no clue what a davenport was and our move for the porch was actually an attempt at obedience. We had just guessed wrong.

Even though Papa had no tolerance for shenanigans, he had a kind and forgiving heart. The little stuff bugged him but if you messed up BIG TIME, you could go to Papa. He would understand.

Papa was so proud of us. So, so proud. He once called everyone in to the room to watch my brother Jeff drink a glass of milk. He went on about how sharp he looked and what a good boy he was. We still laugh about that because our cousins were always displaying their many talents and we were such duds. He found something to be proud of us for too. We were all equally fantastic to him. I remember him cheering me on at swim lessons. I told you before about the swim class I took right before high school, where I was with the 4 year olds. I was so pathetic but I could dive. Not well, but it was one thing I could actually do. I told him how "good" I was at it, and he came to watch while Nonnie videotaped. He rooted for me, while the rest were laughing and mocking the big kid in the baby class.

Shortly before he died, Nonnie told me that Papa had always had a soft spot for Jeff. That was obvious. I knew that. But she told me that over the past few months he had told her he was so proud of who I was becoming. I am so glad that he said that out loud before he left.

Papa would do anything for the people he loved. They wanted so much to fix our little lives. When my parents got divorced they did everything in their power to ensure that our childhood would be beautiful enough to cover any scar tissue. We spent so much time at their house. They took us on vacations because my mom couldn't afford to, sometimes 2-3 times per summer. We went out to dinner, or stayed in and barbecued steak. We would stay the weekend. We would stay for days and days when we were sick, and sometimes even when we were well. Nonnie usually picked us up from school if we became ill, but occasionally she would be at a dance show and Papa would come. Nonnie was the perfect caretaker. Papa would take me to his house and make me a tuna melt or some nachos. So funny, but so sweet because he was trying. Luckily, Nonnie was usually home shortly with Sprite and OJ and jello squares.

Papa cared about my happiness. When I was 12 I had a cat, Chubby Bunny. Chubs got hit by a car and his leg was shattered. He was just the offspring of my dad's alley cat, but I loved Chubby Bunny and I couldn't handle the thought of losing him. The vet explained that they could fix his leg, but that most people would opt to put him to sleep. The surgery was not cheap and it was not sensible. Papa was in the hospital, the only time I ever remember him being sick. He had a blood clot. We went to visit and he asked me to come sit down. He requested a smooch and I blushingly kissed his rough cheek. He handed me a plain white envelope with a few hundred dollars enclosed. He said it was mine and asked how I would use it. I gave it to my mom and we had Chubby's leg rebuilt out of rods. They could have taught me a tough life lesson but now that I am a mom I understand that you would do anything, no matter how impractical, if you love some one enough. Papa loved me enough.

I guess my favorite Papa memories would have to be the vacations though. We always drove and sometimes I was lucky enough to sit right up front, between Nonnie and Papa, on the fold down leather arm rest in his Cadillac. The Cadillac changed every few years, but it was always a Cadillac and it always had two arm rests, and we all wanted to sit on them. It didn't matter where we were going. With Nonnie and Papa, a good time was a guarantee.

Yosemite reminds me of Papa the most. We had so many amazing years there. Even the year that I puked in my sleeping bag every night was wonderful. I think that was the same year we had earthquakes camping with us the whole time. Another year it rained and rained and rained. Papa slept outside on a cot but the rain tore down his bed and forced everyone in to the camper. You can't hike too much in the mud and rain either, so we would go in to town and get goodies and crowd around the tiny camper table and play cards for several hours each evening. I wish someone had been there with a camera because I am guessing that there was more joy evident on my face in those moments than you would find anywhere else in my childhood. I loved site seeing and beholding the wonder of Yosemite, but there was nothing as awe inspiring in my young life than the love that I felt from my grandparents.

Another vacation spot we enjoyed was St. George. I think we followed our uncle up to St. George one year. They were staying at a tennis resort and we tagged along. Papa made me take tennis lessons with my cousins. I was painful to watch but Papa wouldn't let me quit. As a reward for the agony of standing in front of everyone and missing every ball that came my way, I got to take gymnastics on that trip too. I wasn't very good at that either, but Papa came and assured me that I was great, because he knew I was pretending to be.

Another fun vacation was our trip to the do-nothingville that they call Arrowhead. We went in the summer and quickly realized that Arrowhead was strictly a winter vacation spot. We had so much fun just hanging out together in our little cabin though. I remember I had just gotten the soundtrack from Beaches and I walked around singing with my Walkman on all day. How painful for the world around me. I would finally take my headset off and Papa would tease me by screeching out, "fly,fly, fly away...." because he had just had to listen to me butcher Wind Beneath my Wings 100 times in a row. I remember there was a loft that overlooked the downstairs so I would sit up there, dangling my feet through the railing and talking to everyone downstairs. Papa would invite me to please come down and quit dripping my toe jam all over everyone. I remember Papa dropping us off at the movie theatre by ourselves on that trip. We thought we were so big. We saw Turner and Hooch, and Papa called it "Hoochie and Goochie" the whole week. It got a laugh from me every time. I remember stuff that doesn't even matter. We went to buy candy at 7-11 and our bill came to $7.11. I know that is meaningless, but my memory never wanted to let go of a single moment from those summers.

The trip I remember most was our last trip to Balboa. We went there every summer so it was only appropriate that we would spend our last vacation together there. This particular year we were gearing up for Papa's big 70th birthday bash, August 23, 1989. We went and ordered a cake and I remember him being severely disappointed when we picked it up and it said The Big 70th instead of "The Big 7-0". He must have told us a million times. But the party was a hit! He was surrounded by his kids and grandkids. He was so happy and we all laughed our faces stiff that night. This man meant so much to every single person there. It was such an awesome celebration of his 70 years, almost like a funeral before the funeral. When we went back to the beach house that night we were all still laughing. I remember him telling us that he was going to do something even bigger for 75, maybe a cruise. We talked about the party for days. My sister Valerie and my cousin Mary had been obnoxiously chasing around one of the waiters all night. Papa teased her relentlessly when we got home. He kept knocking on the walls and then saying "oooh Valerie, I think Isaac is here to see you." We all laughed and enjoyed recalling all the fun we'd had that night.

That was the best summer ever.

A few weeks later, on September 14, 1989, my grandparents stopped by. We saw them nearly every day but we usually went over there, or Nonnie would come get us. They rarely stopped by together. They wanted to see how the new addition was coming on our house. We walked around and toured the unfinished upstairs, which would soon belong to me and Valerie. We stood in the den. I can remember right where we stood. Papa put his cheek out and asked for a smooch. I quickly brushed my lips across his scratchy cheek. I can still see it. I can still feel it. I wish I'd hugged him so tightly that he would have had no choice but to stay forever.

The next day, Friday, September 15, 1989, I finished my first week of high school. I got home and I heard my mom pull in to the driveway early. Weird. But I ran out to greet her and tell her all about life as a high schooler. I remember yammering on about how I had to sell chocolate as a fund raiser for Drama, blah, blah, blah in my obliviousness. She walked past me like a zombie. Like I wasn't even there.

I followed her in to the house and found my sister Valerie. We sat in my room and speculated about what might be wrong. We waited until our youthful curiosity turned in to panic and went to ask our step dad what was going on. He told us that our mom was in Jeff's room and that we could go in there. Because of the construction we could not walk through the den in to Jeff's room, so we walked out the front door and around to the side door that led to Jeff's room. The door stood open and I could see my mom and Jeff crying.

I couldn't believe it. Papa had been fine the night before. He was fine that morning. He went on a bike ride. He came home and sat down for a minute. Nonnie thought he had dozed off but he was gone. He died suddenly of an aneurysm. I have always wondered if he knew somehow. If he had been sent to say goodbye.

My heart broke so dramatically that day. I remember feeling like nothing around me was even real. Even the voices and sounds around me sounded muffled and canned. This wasn't really happening. I remember waking the next morning, in my sister's room. I remember the sunlight hitting the bed and hoping that it had only been a nightmare. Immediately the heavy pain in my chest, and the crusted up salt that was still burning my eyes reminded me that it was all real.

Everything changed that day. Forever.

I wish Papa could have known Seth, and my kids. I wish they could have known him. I wish he could have teased them and made them watch Whopner. I wish they could have just seen him, because they would have noticed that he had a presence that left an impression on everyone he ever met. I wish they could see him and recognize that so many of the good parts of who I am are a result of the things I learned from Papa. And the sap and free flowing tears, yeah, that was from papa too.

I have sometimes wondered how my life would have been different had Papa stayed longer. Would my crappy years have been easier? Would I have been stronger? More confident? I don't know what might have changed, but I do know that my whole life has been monumentally better for the 13 years that he was with me. And I do know that he is still here. Nonnie too. I felt her just a few weeks ago, guiding me during a tough decision. I don't see ghosts or anything creepy, but I feel them here when I need them most.

This Christmas Papa reminded me that no matter how much space and distance is placed between us and the ones we love, they are still there. I may not have guests flying in to stay, but you will all be here.

You are all always here.

Thank you Papa.