Father’s Day — Generations

On Father’s Day, I will mark sixteen years, five months, and seven days being a grandfather. I am affectionately called Papa by my second-generation posterity. Actually, most of my close clan call me that now, it fits me better. I look, walk, and feel like a Papa more than the title of Daddy or Babe. Don’t laugh!!

If I think hard, I can remember when I was a son and a grandson. That was when I had a Daddy and a Granddaddy. One grandfather did not live long enough to see me and the other one died when I was in the fifth grade. He was my last living grandparent, so I quickly grew out of the title of grandson. I don’t remember anyone referring to me as anyone’s grandson. I would have enjoyed that classification for a while longer.

My fraternal grandfather was a skilled craftsman, he could do anything with tools in his hands. I have a small table he built; it has curved legs sawn by hand. Unfortunately, his lifestyle did him in. I visited his grave in Tennessee. There is a handsome picture of him when he was in his prime. Maybe I could shed a tear for him if I had really known him. I want to cry when I think I may never see him ever.

My maternal grandfather was a sharecropper. The only land he held title to is the plot where he is buried. Over a few rows in the same cemetery are a few men who owned hundreds of acres—they all seem equal now.

I loved my Granddaddy Lee. I spent more time with him than any of my grandparents. He always lived near us. I would go to the field with him and Ole Midgey, our mule. They were a team. It would be amazing how many miles he walked behind a mule in his life. I miss him still and would love a chance to “pick his brain.” I fully expect to have the opportunity to walk hand-in-hand with him again.

I was thinking this week about my title as son. It has been almost eighteen years since I could rightfully hold the title of son. My daddy died in September of 2004 and mother died about 7 months later, April 2005. My parents were wonderful people, dedicated not only to their family but to the church and community. They were great examples to us and to many.

When their last bill was paid, the last account closed, and the last of their belongings finalized; my earthly title as son faded away. Then in the classification of patriarchy, I was a father without a chock to roll back on. Funny, my daddy always called a wheel chock, a scotch. I was forty before I was shamed into changing that word in my vocabulary.

Back to my story. In 2005, I dropped the title of son because there was no one left on earth to call me that.

Daddy was a very important title to have. It was an expensive title to hold. The burden of parents to put a roof over their kids’ heads and food in their bellies is a massive obligation. Even greater is the responsibility to raise them in the ways of Christ and to beat the devil away from the door.

When I was a son, I rode in the wagon. When I was a father, I had to pull the wagon. Thankfully, I had a wife who shared the load with all of the above and more. We still laugh, when the Christmas gifts are opened, I am as surprised as everyone else.

I am blessed that the two I held as babies still call me their father (or some derivative of the formal term). They have long since outgrown the need to hold my hand as they cross the street. One day they may sense the need to take mine, but I am sure I will jerk it back as independent as I am.

We had two children but when they were grown, they brought one each back with them. Well, not under our roof but we doubled our offspring category. I try to keep my advice limited to when they ask for it. The doctors have not needed to sew my tongue back together. But it has been sore a few times.

Now that I have reached the patriarchal pinnacle of Papa, I can enjoy the snippets of being a patriarch without the heavy lifting. I do not say “NO!” as often. I am the grey headed, ole geezer who says, “Why of course you can have cookies thirty minutes before dinner! How many do you want?”

As I write this, I feel a little emotional. I am two sun-trips away from seventy, so I know the clock is ticking. These decades have zoomed by, so I know the nearest shore has a port called Heaven. In many ways, that puts a sparkle in my eye rather than a tear. I’m looking forward to someone special calling me “Son” again. It’s been awhile!

Yours on the Journey,

Harry L. Whitt