In January, my sweet grandfather, Pepa, will turn 101. He walks several miles every day and until this past year, kept a garden and still drives as well as a man half his age. Just before his 100th birthday, he renewed his driver’s license for four more years. There was a spectacular article written in the Benton Courier and a wonderful party was held on one of the iciest weekends that Arkansas has seen. Despite the dicey roads, the family life center was packed with friends and family. There were letters of congratulations from The White House to the city mayor and a basket of cards, handmade by all the kids in the church he attends.
He and my grandmother, Mema, were married 64 years (I think) when she passed away. I used to think that 64 years of anything was an extremely large amount, but now that I’m forty, 64 isn’t quite as long as I once thought. During their years together, they raised five sons, each of whom married wonderful women, and thus began the begetting. At any given time, there are sixty-something of our five generations running around. It boggles the mind. We are legion.
In his lifetime, Pepa has buried his parents, his siblings, his wife, two of his sons and one grandchild. Also, in his lifetime, he has shared his love, his time and his life experience with countless numbers.
My childhood summers were spent on the back of his tractor as he mowed twelve acres that they and my parents owned. Pepa was always up for a ride around the community, a ‘cold drink’ when it was blazing hot outside, a flat-bottom boat ride around the pond and he never, ever told me I couldn’t help him with some project or another. The answer was always yes. I’m positive I hindered more than I helped, but I never knew it as a child. He always wore Big Smith overalls, every day, without fail, and in the winter, plaid flannel shirts accompanied them. I recall owning my own Big Smiths and begging my mom for shirts from the boys department because they had the same flannel that Pepa wore. He could take you anywhere in the county, down all the back roads and Weyerhaeuser roads, because he worked for the county for years driving a motor grater. There was always a snack available, though not what you commonly think of these days. Pepa kept a bowl handy that would hold a Jumbo lemon cookie with a peach half and syrup … sometimes pears. I must have logged a zillion hours sitting in his lap, writing down ‘the count and amount’ from the local noon news channel in the Big Chief writing tablet that sat by his chair. I used to sit and comb his hair, side to side and back again, and he never told me to stop. I’d drag him out to the shed to pilfer though the multitude of things that fascinated me, or talk him into feeding the fish in the pond or just about anything else.
I was a blessed child in an amazing family. I was taught, and taught well, the things that would enable me to succeed in life. I was raised with morals, values, faith, and a strength that, as I’ve aged, I’ve discovered not very many people understand. My grandparents passed on their knowledge to their kids and I have to admit … a century of wisdom is awe-inspiring.
