Friday, January 1, 2016
You might recall that I write about my Pappa in this space sometimes. Since my kiddos were born, one of my favorite activities of going home to Arkansas has always been watching the relationship between Pappa and these great-granddaughters of his grow.
Pappa died yesterday, peacefully and at home, just as he'd wanted.
Although I was his grandchild, he raised me as a daughter, so that I didn't have to know what it was like to not have a father in my life. He renovated the entire house so that I could have my own bedroom. He made me a fried egg sandwich for breakfast every morning, and when I was to be gone overnight, he'd make one for me to take with me. He drove me to school every day, but stayed home when I competed in the county spelling bee, because watching me in person made him too nervous. He taught me how to bake biscuits, how to change the oil in my car, how to drive, and how to fish, and when my own daughters came along, even though he was even older and even more tired by then, he baked them biscuits and taught them how to fish, too. When I was a kid, he didn't like me to ask him questions about the war that he'd fought in, but just this summer he let Will and Syd interview him about it, on camera, just to indulge the lot of us.
Pappa was 96, and we all knew that this moment was coming. Nevertheless, I have recently discovered that I still need him desperately, and I can't quite imagine how my life is meant to look without him now.