PAP-Protective Strength

My maternal grandfather was affectionately called “Pap” by all of us grandchildren. I called him Pap when I first could form the word until the day he died. My Pap was my protector. He was larger than life. He was a very manly man. He was a tough as they come.

Some of my earliest memories of him are of him working or involved in some type of activity. He was often found on a ladder, lying under a car, up in a tree stand, cutting grass, shining shoes, cleaning guns, tilling the garden, etc... He kept a muscular figure even as he aged because of all this activity.

Pap was an oxymoron. He was as tough as nails to the outside world, yet loving and affectionate to those blessed enough to be called family. As a very young child I loved being in his lap with his rugged arms and hands embracing me in a heartfelt hug. He had a very deep bass voice that could resonate in a chest cavity when he wanted to get your attention, but how tender that voice was when he was attempting to sooth your pain while cleaning and bandaging a cut. Pap could stomp through any kind of wooded land and cover more ground than anyone in his work boots, yet he could glide on the living room floor in his Sunday shoes, with my grandmother in his arms like Fred Astaire.

My love for him began as an infant. Those rugged arms held me, that deep voice spoke to me, and his lips kissed me my first day in this world. I had the privilege of spending my first five years next door to him. I always felt safe and secure with him around. In fact, when I was 4 and 5, my mother would allow me to walk over to his house with a flashlight before bed just to give him a kiss and hug goodnight. Somehow, I just felt safer when I laid down and closed my eyes at night after having been with him.

One of my last precious memories of him, was when I took my three young children to see him when he was laying in bed, dying from pancreatic cancer. I lived several hours away and had just had my youngest child. I wanted her and Pap to meet before he died. She was only several weeks old. He was pretty wracked with pain, but still wanted to hold her. I laid her down on his chest, he wrapped his weakened arms around her, softly kissed her on the head, and deeply breathed in her baby freshness. He spoke to her in that deep, soothing voice of his.

He died a few days after that. I remember being thankful that all my children had a chance to be wrapped in his arms and experience his loving, protective strength.