Papa (February 26, 1917-August 24, 2009)

In death, Papa's hands were exactly the same as in life. They were rough and wrinkled and strong. They were soft and frail. They embodied all that his life and experience had taught him, and no amount of formaldehyde could take that away. I tried not to look at his face. It looked oddly familiar. He was wearing his glasses, which I found to be quite strange. He looked like a wax statue. He looked like a model on a movie set. But, his hands...they were the same ones I had held a few months prior. They were the hands I watched fix tractors, shift the gears in the combine, shoot pool in the basement, turn the pages of a newspaper, cradle his great-grandchildren, sift through harvested wheat...lift a coffee-filled, brown stoneware mug from its saucer every, single morning...

He always sat in the same chair at the dinner table. Always. That was Papa's chair. He always had Certs nearby. He never sped. He always watched Johnny Carson (when he was on) before he went to bed. We always had to get permission from him to open Christmas presents. He always made us wait. He always had a $20 bill to give to Matt, Shelley and me. He always used to run behind our car and pretend to push it as we left his farm in Enid. I distinctly remember thinking that he was the only force pushing our car along. I thought he was the strongest man I had ever known.

As I grew, he became human. Ten years ago, when my grandma passed, we wept in each other's arms. It was a defining moment in my life. I had never seen this mostly stoic, German man cry. Ever. But, he did then. And, he did it in front of me. And I loved him for it. It was my turn to comfort him. The "I love yous" came a lot easier and faster from him after Grandma died.

When he was put in the hospital on multiple occasions (mostly for just getting older), I would drive to Enid and see him. He would always, without a doubt say, "You drove all this way to see an old man?" And I would respond, "But you're my Papa, Papa," and he would smile in disbelief that I (and the rest of his grandchildren, for that matter...which was a grand total of four) loved him so much. I think that's the thing...I don't think he ever realized how wonderful he was. I really don't. He had a constant look of confusion as to why we would want to "stick around" for as long as we did on visits...why we would want to just sit and listen to him talk for hours if we could. He may have struggled and made huge mistakes with his own children, but he certainly learned how to do it right with us. He was our Papa. And he was really good at it.

Not long after I moved out of my not-yet-ex-husband's house, Thanksgiving came. I was depressed. I was sad. I was incredibly scared to tell Papa that I was getting a divorce. He came from the thought (as did I until my own divorce occurred) that when you get married, you stayed married. I knew that if I didn't tell him, someone else would. He was in the hospital again, and I decided to forgo turkey and stuffing and spend the day with him. I told him as quickly as I could through tears rolling down my face. He looked heartbroken. But, it was a different kind of heartbreak that I wasn't really expecting. He wasn't heartbroken that I had shamed the family or that I had failed tremendously in some way. It was sincere heartbreak for the pain of his granddaughter. I saw it in his eyes. "I am so sorry. I am so glad you came and told me."

He held my hands with his strong, yet aging, hands and we cried together...again. I told him that I didn't feel up to going to any of the family dinners that day. I told him I wanted to clean his house. He couldn't understand why. I just needed to be around something/someplace that had only loving and familiar feelings associated with it.

He finally said...in all seriousness, "Well, when you go to the farm, don't go down to the barn and play in it. It's falling apart, and I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you while you were playing in the barn."

I was twenty-seven years old.

My "playing in the barn" days were long over. But, not to Papa. I was always six to him. I would forever be picking burrs off of my jeans or running out to the tractor to ride with him. I would be eating single packages of cereal in the morning. I would be swimming in cattle tanks or riding on the back of the 3-wheeler through the creek. I'm glad his mind worked like that. I sometimes wish I could still be doing all of those things...especially this week.

Later on, when it came time for him to move into an assisted living/nursing home, I was worried and struggling with the decision, even though it wasn't mine to make. I called him and told him that I would be completely willing to move out to the farm and take care of him so that he didn't have to live there. He said, "Let me think about it."

About a week later, he called. He said:

"Cari, I think it's wonderful that you would want to help me like that, but you have a life to live. You can't spend years of your life as a young woman taking care of an old man. You have your own family to make and raise."

"But, I want to take care of you. I want to live on the farm."

I was slightly heartbroken because I had nothing else to do. I didn't have a family. I was still depressed at this point, living above a garage with my dog. I wanted to retreat in the safety of that farmhouse. I wanted to have someone else depend on me. I needed to be needed.

But I think, in some strange way...he knew I was trying to hide. He knew I was trying to escape from actually dealing with life. Although I would've been happy to have taken care of him so that he could stay at the farm...he knew it wasn't the right thing to do. The last thing he said to me about this, and I'll remember it until the day I die, was:

"I know you want to do this, but I won't let you. You can't live your life for someone else."

It makes me cry thinking of it at this very moment. He saved me, in a way. In the kindest way possible, he said, "Get your shit together, stop wallowing in that tiny apartment, go out and find your life, and stop trying to hide by taking care of other people."

I got it, Papa. I really did.

Along with the occasional visit, I wrote him letters while he was at Greenbriar Nursing home. Once, he tried to make me think that he was forgetting who everyone was (one thing he always had was a wicked sense of humor).

"Cari wrote me a letter the other day," Papa said to me.

"Oh, yeah?" I said with terror in my voice. This can't be happening. How can he not know who I am? His mind is like steel.

"Yep. Do you know who Cari is?" he asked.

"Um...yeah...uh..." was all I could say.

"It's YOU, silly! You're Cari!"

I could have killed him, but instead I laughed my ass off.

There was once a "Walker Race" at the nursing home. It's pretty self-explanatory. Anyone who used a walker or a cane (he had a cane...sometimes) was eligible to enter. The contestants (Papa included) were to start at the lobby, proceed down the hall, around corner, back down another hall and round a corner back to the lobby.

Upon seeing his "Walker Race" medal one day, he proudly informed me that he had won the race. I wasn't surprised. He honestly could walk without any effort at all at this point. But, what he said next was...well...I was going to say "the surprising part," but I have to admit...I'm really not at all surprised by what came out of his mouth next.

"I won the race. Want to know what I did?"

"Sure," I responded.

"Well, you see...I pretended to use my walker and go really slowly with all of the other residents while the nurses could still see us. Then, as I rounded the corner and was out of eyesight, I carried my walker and ran as fast I could. Then, I slowed down at the last turn where they could see me again and pretended to go slow." A smile and that familiar, mischievous glint in his eye appeared.

Endless laughter. Papa had cheated...against people who literally couldn't speak or think or see straight anymore. He ran.

"Um, wow...I'm really proud of you?" was all I could think to say. But, I was...because he was still going strong in a situation that would make others cry with self-pity.

There were about four "scares" before the final call came. They were usually months apart, and everyone rushed to go see him, and he always bounced back. Always. Every, single time we would get a call that said, "You should really go see Papa. He's not doing well. They think this may be the end." My brother, sister and I (or some combination of those of us who could make it) would show up and he'd be up in bed, smiling and talking.

I think I honestly thought he was invincible at one point.

But, then, two Fridays ago, he said, "I don't think I want to do this anymore." He was in quite a bit of pain. He had never said anything like that before. It was always, "Oh, I'll be fine. Let's try such-and-such medication," and he would always end up just fine. But, not this time. He had finally allowed himself to give up. He was in a lot of pain. His bones were extremely brittle, and he was...tired. I don't blame him one bit.

Three days later, on August 24th, 2009 (what would have been his 68th wedding anniversary), Papa passed away. Fortunately, I got to tell him everything I wanted to tell him...just not this time. I told him all of the "goodbye" stuff about 6 months ago when one of the "scares" was happening. Thinking back, he was probably lying there, half-asleep, thinking, "I'll show her." This time I didn't get to do that, but it's okay. He knew how much I loved him.

I got a call on Monday morning at 7:00am. The screen on my cell phone said, "Dad." I knew. I picked up the phone and said, "Papa died, didn't he?" I didn't even say hello. Then I cried. A lot.

So, Papa...

Thank you one last time. Thank you for wheat fields and sunsets that never seemed to end. Thank you for two-week harvests and cold jugs of water on the hottest summer day. Thanks for having black (and then gray) caterpillar eyebrows. Thanks for being strong and taking care of our family. Thanks for being weak and taking care of yourself. Thanks for telling me no when I needed to hear it. Thank you for showing me the strongest work ethic I have ever seen. Thank you for feeding millions of families. Thank you for being "just a farmer." Thank you for openly talking about the struggles and hardships of your childhood. Thank you for making my childhood so special...when you didn't even get to have one.

I asked my dad if I could have a set or two of those brown stoneware mug and saucer sets you used to drink out of every, single morning. He swiped them from the house. Matt wanted one, too, which I thought was pretty interesting. I think that goes to show that you did a fine job of raising your own son to raise us well, too. Thinking of all of the things we could've asked for...jewelry, furniture, money...I could honestly give a shit.

I just wanted one of those mugs. I'm drinking my morning coffee out of one of them right this very second.

So, Papa, traditions continue. You're right: family is the most important thing we have.

And now that I have this mug, the memory of the hands that built this family are never far from my heart.

p.s. Matt and Shelley and I really wanted to run behind the hearse and push it as it drove away. We should've done it. You would've loved that.

p.p.s. If this little one on the way has anything close to your (or my dad's) sense of humor, I'm in big, big trouble...but in the best possible way.

p.p.p.s. Love. You. Forever.