Debby & Pa – Young & old blend generations

As you read this story of my dad, written by one of his grand-daughters, you’ll catch several hints of how the elderly can touch the young. In fact, perhaps you’ll pick up on two words that may have planted the seeds in the heart of a little girl that grew into a fascinating and highly successful career. I’ll comment further about this at the end of the article. –Dale

PA
By Debby Rhoads Eason

Pa has always been old.  In fact, the first memory I have of him is his uneven limping gait as we walked to the store when I was three.  Afraid he would leave without me, I clung to his pant’s leg, straining against the grip of my grandmother as she swept back my hair in a ponytail.  On our journey, I held his pointing finger, feeling the rough warts as my arm jerked up and down with the unevenness of his walk.  He limped because he had been in a mine accident years before.  His broken leg had not healed correctly, so he had special shoes with one heel built up high, making him walk with his torso forward, looking as if he might fall.

I don’t remember what his voice sounded like.  Pa could talk then, but somehow the sound of his voice has been replaces by the ever-present buzz of his talker as it vibrates against his throat.  The year I was four he had an operation for cancer of the throat and has been buzzing us ever since.  Pa’s talker has been a familiar object to all of his grandchildren and great grandchildren.  The thrill of being able to push the button and feel the tingle has been his connection across the lines of communication with all the children.  We could understand his metallic voice better than most adults.  It never seemed strange to see the pulsation of the hole in his throat, or to see him hold the Kleenex to his neck, instead of his mouth, when he coughs.  He was just Pa.

Each year my cousin, Sandy, and I spent a week with Ma and Pa.  We could always hear his thumping approach as we giggled in bed, watching the designs the fire and grate of the pot bellied stove cast upon the ceiling.  The days were filled with Pa.  He and his ever-faithful beagle, Dick, went squirrel hunting almost every day.  (Dick was always Dick even though the dogs changed over the years.)  My cousin and I remained behind, climbing atop a washhouse Pa helped build when he was seventy-two.  We sang and played and listened for his return.

Some days he would go to town to join the “Idler’s Club” and swap pocket knives.  He didn’t seem to care if he had a good swap or not.  The days he stayed home, he would entertain us with stories about France during World War I.  His memory is so vivid that he even remembers the two French words a friend spoke in a restaurant, oeuf and jambon.  He loved to talk about his adventures.

He is eighty-seven now, but his appearance has changed little over the years.  He wears his shirt collar open so that he can breathe through the hole in his throat.  His clothes hang on him.  He cinches his belt tight, and his pants gather around his waist.  His short white hair recedes further each year.  The biggest change of appearance has been his nose.  His face was badly cut in an auto accident, and from the mass of stitches covering his face, emerged a small pointed nose to replace the monster that was there before.  He uses a cane now and has difficulty managing stairs.

The kinship between Pa and me has grown even greater in the last few years.  I always enjoy being with him even when he declares that Republicans are terrific, and chooses Kentucky basketball over Tennessee cagers.  We snicker behind Ma’s back because he has doctor’s orders to take a little whiskey everyday for his circulation.  He doesn’t trade knives anymore but we barter together.  Two years ago he planted four rows of sweet potatoes—my favorite.  He pulled me to the garden to choose a row and declared I would have each potato in the row.  In return, I never fail to bring him a tin of King Leo Peppermint stick candy each time I visit.  The same finger I clung to at three is the one that greets me every visit.  He hooks it around my finger for a special handshake.

Pa and I are an example of the special feeling that so often springs up between the young and the very old.  Both have the ability to accept one another, warts and all–  the young because of innocence,  the old because of wisdom. –D.R.E.
<<<<<<<<<<<~~>>>>>>>>>>

Debby’s Pa, my dad, died the year after she wrote this story. But he left the little girl she had been and the woman she became with a head and heart full of life-enriching memories. I suggested in the preface to this story that there were a couple of words in the story that may have been the genesis of Debby’s career. The words? Oeuf and jambon–the menu words Pa had picked up in Paris in WW I. Debby became an outstanding teacher of the French language and escorted student groups to France. Was that a goal of her grandad? No, his goal was to pour his love in the hearts of his little grandchildren. That he did–and they responded. That’s what happens where love lives. –PDS