81

This month we celebrate my grandpa Hamm's 81st birthday. Grandpa Hamm the fisherman, the mechanic, the husband, father...the stubborn. At 81 years old he's almost exactly twice my age. I simultaneously fear and stand in awe of anyone that has managed to live that long. The multitude of lives he must have lived. The faces of friends and family that have crossed his path and then faded away just as quickly.  I stay awake at night frightened that tragedy will strike me in the coming hours. I pray for God to keep my children and my wife safe...to save me from the horrors others around me have endured.

I love my grandfather dearly but I must admit I've taken advantage of him and for that I feel guilty. Like a library shelf filled with books of all shapes and sizes, covering everything from religion to auto repair, I feel like I have a tendancy to pull people out of the stacks only to put them back on the shelf once I've gotten what I want from them. My guilt is only eased by the thought that such is life; people come and go each with their own purpose and then head back down their own path.  I remember friends from college, best friends I thought would be in my life forever only to have them disappear right before my eyes. A day turns into a month into a year and soon into a lifetime. We are in constant motion and at 81 years of age even my over active imagination can not fathom how many people my grandfather has met. I try not to think of what my life will look like should I make it that far.

He lost his wife last May. Almost 61 years to the day they joined hands in marriage and made promises that lasted a life time. Slowly she slipped away into peaceful slumber, him by her side every heartbeat of the way. I watched from a distance. Scared of what I might see should I get too close. The feeling of something way to heavy for me to handle keeping me at arms length. I talk to my wife all through the day and at times in my sleep at night. I can't imagine not being able to hear her speak back. Not to feel the breathe come from her lips. Feet grazing each other while fast asleep tucked safely in our bed. 

I suspect that at 81 distractions become merely that. Movies, books, television...who has time for those things when there are hummingbirds to be watched, flowers to see bloom, grand and great-grandchildren to soak up. Recently he's started going back to church. When a man like Clovis Hamm walks down that isle, a man with hands like tree trunks and a heart just as big, people take notice. It sets an example when a man everyone leans on humbles himself before The Lord. What grandchild doesn't want to see their pawpaw waiting for them in Heaven someday?

A thousand pictures cover the house. A homage to the lives that sprung from it. He built it with his own hands, my grandfather did. Once upon a time it housed a wife, a husband, and four girls. Now it sits half empty, a temple filled with precious artifacts. He walks its halls like a security guard forever keeping it safe and intact. 

When we look at him we see love. We see each other...and although she's no longer visibly by his side, we also see his forever bride. 

MawMaw

I was the first. At some point along the way she became everyone’s Granny, but I was the first grandchild…the first boy of the family and to me she was always MawMaw. I’m not sure why it changed, but I remember at some point in high school being slightly embarrassed when I told my friends I spent the weekend at my MawMaw and PawPaw’s house; but that’s how I always thought of her.

When I think of her I remember food. To this very day every time I go over to that house with the long hallway that used to seem like it went on for miles, it’s all I can do not open up the fridge and check out what leftovers might be available. The best fried pork chops I’ve ever had in my life. Pot roast with carrots and potatoes slow cooked in a baking bag. Oh and of course who can forget that macaroni and cheese! I’ve tried making it so many times and can’t get it right. I know the recipe by heart; Velveeta cheese, noodles, and a can of condensed milk (Not sweetened. I made that mistake once and the result was some kind of nasty cheesy desert nightmare). The last time I tried to make her mac n’ cheese, it ended up so thick I nearly broke a wooden spoon trying to stir it. To this day twice a year I try to make Biscuit Stuff (ground beef, sour cream, tomato sauce, lined with biscuits along the top and then covered in cheese)….I do alright with it, but it’s not same. 

I remember sweet tea. She’d boil it on the stove and pour it into this two gallon glass jug. She would drink her tea out of a blue or green Tupperware glass similar to what Uncle Si drinks his out of. She’d add a touch of Real-Lemon and unfortunately never finished a glass as long as I was around. MawMaw would get so frustrated when I came up and took the glass from her. 

I remember once I asked for a bowl of shredded wheat. She sat the bowl in front of me and just watched as I started pouring salt over it. “Are you sure you don’t want sugar on that?” she asked. Now we both knew immediately I had made a disastrous mistake, but I’ve always been stubborn. Instead of pouring the bowl into the trash can, I simply replied “This is how we eat it at my house.”I then added a touch more for emphasis. I ate the entire bowl and it later made me sick as a dog, but I never admitted she was right and she never rubbed in my face how foolish I had been.

It’s any wonder I’m so stubborn, I learned from the best. I can’t count the number times she made me cut my own switch or stand still so she could whoop me with the back of a hairbrush. One time she told me to go cut a switch and I flat out refused. “I ain’t cutting a switch and you can't make me!” She just looked at me with those eyes squinted so tight you had to wonder how she could see out of them; lips drawn up over clinched teeth….needless to say I still got the whoop’n that was coming to me. 

Brock and I would spend the night quite a bit in those early days and she’d make us take showers before bed…and then another first thing in the morning. We’d argue about it every time. I just never could understand how I could possibly have gotten dirty just laying there on that egg carton mattress asleep for six hours. She insisted that we sweat in our sleep. Of course I’d come back with some smart mouth comment about how if it didn’t feel like a furnace in there all the time we wouldn’t have to keep having this conversation. Yet there I was taking another shower just a few hours after I’d had the last one. 

I think she’s the reason I can’t lie. To this very day some thirty years later, it simply kills me not to tell the truth. PawPaw had this old pump action BB gun he’d let me practice with. You’d have to pump the thing ten times before you could get a shot off. I’d grab that BB gun and head off into the patch of woods there by the house. I was bent on trying to kill a bird though I never succeeded. There’s an old shack up on the far left corner of the property where a couple rusted out cars were stored….they may still be there for all I know. I was up there looking for birds or squirrels and saw this side view mirror hanging from a tree. Now that mirror had been there for as long as I could remember and for some reason on that day, I decided it was time for it to meet its maker. So I pumped that BB gun just like I was taught, lined up the sites just right….and to my complete horror I hit the blasted thing dead center! I remember being so scared. I’d never hit anything I’d aimed at before. I completely understood what I had done. This was not an accident. I pulled the trigger and hit what I was aiming at. Immediately the guilt started eating away at me, yet somehow I made it home without saying a word to anyone. After a bit Mom knew something was up. Finally I just broke down crying over what I’d done; the guilt eating me from the inside out. I called the house and when MawMaw answered the phone, I just blabbed the entire story. I simply couldn’t handle them not knowing how I’d done that on purpose and then went on home like nothing ever happened. I remember she said I’d be punished the next time I came over and I was. 

My MawMaw would take us to church. We’d go to Jacksonburg Church of Christ and sit in the balcony. If you got out of line, you could count on getting the fire pinched out of you before you even realized you were goofing off. There wasn’t any talking back or pleading your case, you obeyed and that’s just the way it was. I remember PawPaw disappearing towards the end of service one time. I thought he just had to go to the bathroom, when suddenly I saw him down there heading towards the front pew. I remember the hugs and the tears of joy that followed afterward. It wasn’t till I was much older before I realized exactly what I had been witness to. 

Lastly I remember smoking a cigarette in front her. I must have only been 17. I was hanging around on their back porch and decided it was time they knew just who I really was. I was a smoker and wasn’t nothing they could say that could change that. So we are all sitting there; breeze blowing through the trees. I pulled that cigarette out of my pocket, lit that bad boy up like I’d done so many times before, and had me a cigarette with my MawMaw. She never said a word; never acted like it was that big a deal. I hadn’t proved anything other than what kind of idiot I was for thinking that smoking in front of my grandmother was going to be some kind of major victory in my war for independence. 

In the Bible we are given countless examples of how the Lord provides us with what we need whether we know what that is or not. We are shown how God looks out for those that believe and always does what’s best for them……the reason I can’t get her recipes right, is because the main ingredient isn’t a special kind of cheese..it’s love. The kind of love that only a MawMaw has for her grandchildren; the same kind of love that would lead God to send his son to the cross so that the rest of us could be free. The reason she made me cut those switches, take those extra showers, and make those stupid mistakes without saying a word, is because she always knew what was best for me even when I didn’t know it myself. For that I will be eternally thankful to her.

From A Worn Out Boot

My dad spent several years in the Army and later the Reserves while I was growing up. He trampled through the jungles of Central America and later spent time at various military bases in and around the South. I remember being a kid and seeing him dressed up in his uniform. Wearing that camouflage jacket and pants; a puke green shirt underneath. Sometimes I would put that jacket on. Feel the weight of it on my shoulders. I can still feel it wrapped around me and see those sleeves going way past my hands as I marveled at how gigantic it felt. I remember his boots...

He wore a pair of standard issue combat boots. Specifically designed with only one purpose in mind and that was to survive any situation. Those black leather boots that laced all the way to the top and fit like a glove. He used to polish the stew out of those things. I don't recall ever seeing them dirty and if I did, it wasn't for very long. He'd get that black tin can of Kiwi shoe polish and put a shine on those boots like you wouldn't believe. No telling how old those boots were. Cracks and creasing were there, but to me that just added to their appearance. What good are a pair of boots that haven't ever been anywhere?

For some reason I've been thinking a lot about those boots lately. How their flaws were just a part of who they were and didn't get in the way of their purpose. I think in many ways we are all like a pair of combat boots. We are all on a journey. Every day we pull ourselves out of bed and continue down the path in front of us. Each of us having our own share of cracks and creases that we do our best to hide...to smooth out. Far from perfect and flawed in our own little ways that maybe only we can see ourselves. I think it's important to understand this about each other. It's important to realize that at any given time we are all either coming out of, in the middle of, or preparing to go into a life event. We all have things we wish we hadn't said and have been hurt by the actions of others whether intentional or accidental. Like a pair of combat boots none of us are perfect and have traveled millions of miles one step at a time to get to where we are. When we do show our faults...when we unintentionally hurt others or are offended by someone, we should approach the situation with understanding and kindness. Come to the problem with grace and a soft voice. Never intending to throw anyone out like a pair of worn out boots, but to help smooth out the edges so we can all shine like we should.

Only one perfect person ever existed in this world and they stripped him bare, nailed him to a cross, and took him from those that loved him dearly. When we react to others angrily without thought and full of emotion, it hurts everyone involved. We could all stand to walk in one another's boots before casting stones. We could all stand a little bit of polishing every now and then....

Bill iii