Papoo

“I am so weak,” Austin Nail managed to say, just breaths before the end.

Austin had lived 89 years and seven months, and his body failed him in nearly every way. A farmer who lived most of his days under the weathering sun, he spent much of his final year indoors. He rarely ventured beyond the familiarity of his leather recliner, yet his gaze often strayed toward the picture window a few feet beyond, as evidenced by a set of binoculars always within reach. He was virtually immobile, but he vigilantly guarded his yard. His field. The swampy bayou he called home.

Heart trouble was the newest and most serious addition to Austin’s ailments. He’d never possessed good hearing, likely the result of poor genetics, deafening machinery, and shooting too many firearms without proper hearing protection. Later on, arthritis crippled his knees. Stenosis mangled his back. Type-II diabetes slowed him some, too, although he ate freely as if he hadn’t a care in the world. A benign brain tumor robbed his vision in one eye, but his expressive eyes never lost their radiance. They always received me warmly, ablaze with an accompanying, “Hey, Mitch,” and completed by an upheld leathery hand where one finger had a missing tip.

We grandkids called him “Papoo” (pronounced Pæ’-pooh), the result of my eldest cousin’s morphing of the southern term, Papaw, into something entirely more original and endearing. It fit him well, and he wore the title with honor.

The last time I saw him face to face, I—on cue—returned his greeting enthusiastically.

“Hey, Papoo! It’s good to see you,” I said.

“It’s good to see you, too,” he returned through a gravelly, measured voice I’d come to treasure.

On the surface, nothing had changed. And yet, we all knew his heart troubles lurked just below. Physically, he’d seemed indestructible for so many years. But something about his most recent impediment was different. Knowing his time drew rapidly to a close, we basked in our days together; the long, uncomfortable goodbye looming overhead.

In fact, I’d adopted saying, “See you soon,” at every departure, not knowing when I’d imprint my final memory of him.

On Monday, Feb. 10, 2020, I called my dad for an update. Dad said Papoo struggled through the day. Heart-failure induced nausea left Papoo’s stomach in knots, and hallucinations clouded his mind. He could barely eat or drink, and Dad urged me, “Just pray.”

My mom called me sometime after 9 p.m. saying Papoo had just died. All I really knew to say was, “OK.” I gingerly thumbed the red button on my phone and stared hollowly into an abyss.

He had passed into the eternal realm awaiting us all.

**********

The son of a farmer, Papoo toiled the family occupation from an early age. As a youngster, his parents migrated southward one county in hopes of a better life. Absent a brief stint when Uncle Sam demanded his duty in the Armed Forces, he remained forever planted between the two converging rivers that watered the crops he sowed and harvested.

As the land and his little hometown changed over time, Papoo did too. One thing farmers learn, though, that despite technological advances, it’s difficult—if nigh impossible—to bend the land to their will. They can manipulate certain aspects of the terrain or add irrigation and drainage capabilities, but the land itself often remains a product of the environment; no matter how hard they try.

Farmers who survive the lean years adopt the land’s demands.

The land and its surrounding forces become part of the farmer. They know what to plant. When they can or cannot expect rain. What equipment to use where and why to use it. What hazards threaten their way of life. When to press on and when to let go.

Papoo’s disposition grew intertwined with the rivers he battled and simultaneously needed.

He was steady; steady as the waters’ currents inching their way south to the Gulf of Mexico. He possessed a rugged beauty full of life like the rivers and their banks teeming with wildlife and greenery. He emanated peace, much like the waters flowing by. He had an infectious joy like the freedom experienced on the open water.

But as with the rivers, taming him proved more than a challenge. It was impossible.

He drove fast. Much too fast.

I recall white-knuckling the passenger door of a beat-up Chevrolet, barreling down a dirt road at 70 miles per hour; a dust cloud resembling a frenetic smoke signal ushering our arrival. (He often said that bumpy roads shared an inverse relationship with high speeds.)

He destroyed more farm equipment and vehicles than I care to count, and I’m not surprised his insurance agent attended his funeral.

Later on as a retiree, he had “projects” related to “moving dirt.” Some of the projects proved helpful. Others tolerable. Many, however, just created additional headaches for my dad and uncle who had taken over his farming operation.

Personally, I remember somersaulting off an ATV as a little kid when I thought he’d stopped. He hadn’t.

I also recall him dropping a giant blade used to dig levee trenches on my foot. I honestly thought my baseball career was ruined; that I’d be better suited kicking footballs or soccer balls with my now halved shoe size. I breathed a sigh of relief upon removing my sneaker, finding my foot still whole.

But somewhere in the chaotic rush and occasional haphazard planning and executions, being with Papoo felt like the best place in the world. It resembled Susan Pevensie asking Mr. Beaver about Aslan in C.S. Lewis’ The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

“Is he quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion…”

“‘Safe?’ said Mr Beaver…’Who said anything about safe? Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good…'”

Papoo echoed the goodness shown by the creator he loved fully; the one who ignited the stars and toppled sin and death’s reign. His presence may not have always felt safe, but his goodness brought trust. And trust grew love.

There was nowhere I’d rather be.

**********

As cliched as it might sound, I like to think Papoo’s heart ultimately gave out because, unlike Theodor Geisel’s character The Grinch, he had a heart two sizes too big.

His passions ran deep, intertwined as an amalgamation of complexity and pure simplicity.

He loved the outdoors like his fourth child, and nearly all Papoo stories worth telling originated there.

Hunting? Every chance.

Fishing? All year long.

Camping? A family tradition.

Farming? A way of life.

And yet none of these passions compared to his true loves—his God and his people; all people.

Papoo possessed an unparalleled capacity to love, wearing love as a sword to disarm any opponent attempting to rebuff his “attacks.” He often told me that people can only truly know how to love after experiencing the love of their creator.

“We love because he first loved us,” the scriptures read.

He lived it, believing the love of Christ empowered him to love unconditionally sans reciprocity or recognition. A great example showed every Sunday morning.

As Papoo’s mother, whom we called “Nanny,” entered her final years, her mind wavered between lucidity and confusion. She’d lived directly across the street from him for years on a dead-end rural road. But ultimately, he was forced to place her in a nursing home some 10-15 miles away so she could receive the palliative care she required.

Each Sunday morning before church without fail, he visited her, only to return and teach Sunday School, giving generously of both his time and resources. After Nanny passed away, he continued his visits. He had fallen in love with the neglected residents and longed to give them community in a place it didn’t exist.

His Sunday morning rendezvous would always include stops at a local cafe where he ate breakfast and shared his faith stories to local farmers preparing for work. Again, he kept going back for the people.

In his retirement, he grew heavily involved with the Arkansas Baptist Disaster Relief program, assisting communities devastated by natural disasters. He wore his yellow hat and badge proudly, emblematic of the faith he carried inside and out. I’ve heard stories how he would outwork men decades younger than him, clearing debris like he had a divine commission; because he had.

Recounting his adventures across the country, Papoo always migrated to the people he met and how God used simple acts of kindness to do big kingdom work.

Jesus said in the Gospel of Matthew, “‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the great and foremost commandment. The second is like it, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments depend the whole Law and the Prophets.”

Papoo understood that to truly love God, he would love his neighbor. The forgotten neighbor in a rural nursing home who couldn’t remember her name. The well-to-do farmer who could buy whatever he needed except the longing in his soul. And the young family several states over who lost their first home in a tornado. Everyone.

**********

After Papoo’s death, my family quickly realized it didn’t have enough pictures of him. He had always taken the pictures when we were together, finding himself less frequently on the camera’s receiving end.

Maybe that’s why I love the picture above. I took it about a decade ago, just before Papoo began a years-long spiral into numerous health issues. We had taken a camping trip—one of our final ones together—and I brought my future wife, Samantha, with me. It was the blending of the family into which I was born and the family I would choose.

Samantha had recently bought me a point-and-shoot camera (remember those?) to replace one I had absentmindedly drowned a few months earlier in a creek. I couldn’t wait to see what I could capture with 10 Megapixels.

So there we were. It was morning; my favorite time. It was breakfast; my favorite meal. We were together; my favorite people.

And I got this picture.

To me, it encapsulates Papoo perfectly—the wry smile, the kind eyes, the silver hair, the Big Smith overalls. It’s my memory, and it’s how I choose to remember him.

The faith Papoo instilled in my family gives hope that his death simply separates us for a time. It’s an agonizing, time, but it’s not permanent. We’ll see each other again.

Frankly, though, I don’t know what Papoo will look like the next time I see him. Maybe he’ll be the young man with his siblings; confident and full of life. Maybe he’ll be the salt-and-peppered, dapper gentleman with his wife and children; rugged and strong. Or maybe he’ll be the kind and patient grandfatherly figure I knew, Big Smith overalls and all. Whatever his visage, he won’t be the weak man he assessed himself at the end.

I fully believe that in Papoo’s weakness, God was perfecting him. Whatever Papoo looks like now, it’s perfect. That’s who I’ll see when I journey to the other side.

When I do, I’ll imprint a new memory. Until then I have this picture, and I’ll let Papoo’s life guide mine. Maybe someday I’ll even look like him.

I know of no greater honor.