I just seem to have this burning need,
deep down in my soul, for my grand boys to remember me as being outstanding in
some physical way, because boys are all about physical strengths. The problem
is, I never did have many physical strengths to begin with, and what I did have
are pretty well all gone. So I'm going to tell you my story about my search to
implant this respect in my grand boys, over the years. Before it’s too late.
Caylie is my oldest granddaughter. She's a
married gal now. But Caylie is a lady, rarely impressed by an old man, trying
to put on a show with his physical exploits. So, I just never felt the need try
to impress her in that area. And, she
runs half marithons, and is a skydiver.
What could I do physically to impress a half marithoner, and a skydiver?
Nothing, that’s what. And Cati-Beth, the youngest of them all, is still too
young to care one way or another.
The grand boys are totally different. All
four of them. Christian is the oldest, weighing in at 230 with no fat, six feet
tall, so I know better than to try to impress him with most physical things
nowadays. Afraid he might impress me with his own physical things. But years
ago when he was much younger, I did impress him with my ability to start a fire
out in the woods under any weather conditions whether it be rain, sleet, or
snow, using only one match and natural things available out in the woods. That
impressed him. I also showed him how to start a campfire with flint and steel,
and he just grabbed onto that one and worked and worked at it until he had
mastered that too. When he was much younger, he and I were sitting around a
campfire one night. Now, sitting around a campfire just calls for a chew of
tobacco. But I was still trying to conceal that from him. I didn't think he
would be greatly impressed by that fact, and he never has been. Anyway, as we
were sitting there spitting into the fire, as everyone worth their salt does in
that situation, Christian just had to know. “Papaw, how come when I spit, it's
clear. But you can spit brown. Now, why is that?” Well, I wasn't ready yet to
tell him that whole story, he would find out soon enough. “Son, you have to
reach way down into your lungs and bring it up from real deep to get to the
brown stuff.” Christian started working at it. He just went deeper and deeper,
just wore himself out. Couldn't do it. But he continued working on that for
some time. He soon figured that whole thing out on his own.
Jordan and Jackson are brothers and both
are rough and tumble boys. They get a lot of experience at it, fighting like
cats and dogs. All day. Every day. After coming home from two hours of
wrestling practice.
I just feel like my grandsons should
carry memories of me around when they are older, and I 'm pushing up daisies,
as a strong, fast, or tough old man. But it's too late. I can't impress them
with my speed, I can barely get out of a good fast jog. On a good day.
Strength, I never did have much of that. That just leaves tough.
We were sitting in their house one night,
several years ago. I told them I would give them one shot each at pulling on
the long hair on my forearm, as hard as they wanted to. I've got a lot of it.
My “kids” at our orphanage we worked at in Africa often said, “Uncle Pat is
like Esau.”
They both pulled as hard as they could.
Though I was screaming inside, I just sat there and took it, never changed my
expression. After that, they often said, “Papaw is the strongest man in the
world. He's even stronger than Daddy.” Well, their father Mickey is about the
strongest man I know. He could easily snap me like a twig, so I just wallowed
in their admiration.
Lately, the youngest boy, Carson, got his shot at my
forearm hair. But he somehow had it figured out. He didn't pull straight out,
as the older ones did. He just grabbed a good handful of hair, leveraged his
fist some way against my arm to get an unfair advantage of me, and pulled out a
whole handful of hair. I've decided it’s about time to retire that one. But I
kept a straight face the whole time. I'm proud about that.
Two or three years ago, they all got into
a big gunfight with those air soft rifles (they shoot plastic BB's, unlike the
metal kind) at my house, wearing goggles. I watched closely. Those plastic
pellets went a long way, but you could follow the path of the pellet all the
way out, so I knew they didn't pack a big punch. So I took advantage of that
opportunity to impress. I put on goggles, and gave each of them five free shots
at my face at about fifteen feet. When the pellet hit, I never blinked or
moved. Only one, right on the ear, stung a long time, but they were all
impressed. I worked very hard at never moving or blinking. That's the key to
the whole thing.
Barbara and I looked after Jordan and
Jackson this week, and our main job was to keep them from killing each other.
They now had a new, up to date, and obviously, I soon found out, much improved
model of the air soft gun, a pistol. Jordan was ragging Jackson about crying
when he got shot in the back with it a few days ago and that impressed me
because our family motto for a long time had been, If Jackson cries call 911.
For good reason. He just almost never cries from pain.
Well, I saw a new way to impress the grand
boys. I watched them shoot it a couple of times, and though I could never
follow the pellet when they shot it, I just assumed it was because it would
soon be dark. I backed off ten feet or so, turned my back, raised my shirt,
told them to each shoot me in the back. Well, this turned out to be a whole
different gun. Jack shot me, and the blood started flowing, I screamed and
cried, but managed to keep it all inside. They were impressed.
Well, I still had one more shot I just had
to take, and there was just no way I was going to destroy that image of being
the world's toughest papaw that I had spent years building up in my grandsons.
I turned around, told Jordan to take his best shot. He did, and it felt like it
hit even harder, but at least no blood. Just a big bruise. I never reacted
outwardly to either shot, though inwardly I was bawling like a baby. That's was
enough of that for that day. My reputation was now reinforced in blood.
The boys went upstairs, and I went to the
kitchen for a long, sharp knife. I called Jackson down, handed him the knife.
Told him that bullet could still be in my back, possibly, and I couldn't reach
my back to dig it out. I told him I was going to lie down, and, since he's the
one who pulled the trigger, stick that knife in that hole about half an inch
and dig that bullet out. Tough as he was, Jackson turned white as a sheet.
While he was still in the white state, I took back the knife, told him I would
let him off, as I could see he was a little nervous about doing that. I would
just tough it out with that bullet in me. I told him that bullet would
eventually work it’s own way out, most likely. All those other bullets I’ve had
in me did.
When we all go to the State Fair together,
I let the boys pick out the badest ride on the place, then ride that with one
of them. That's all I ride. Always with a big smile on my face, flaunting the
“no hands” thing. When I get off, I always get out of their sight as quickly as
possible. In case I have to throw up. Where carnival rides are concerned,
Carson, takes the cake. He's still very small, yet he begs to ride all of them.
He managed to get on one this year that he should not have been on in the first
place, and the bar did not fit tight enough to hold him. He got slung all over
that cage.
So, all you Grandpa's out there, remember
if you're weak and can't run, like me, you can still impress the grand boys in
physical things. The key is to show absolutely no reaction to pain, then you
can go in the bathroom. And have a good cry.
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