it's been six years.

my papa died six years ago. whenever we'd go hang out with gramma and papa we mostly hung out with gramma. we went down to the creek (criik) with her and she'd bait our hooks and take our fish off. then nome and lize would drive the three wheeler though cow pies, stop with the front wheel directly IN the cow pie...and then with their little arms yank the handlebars right and then left and back a hundred times to make sure the crap was good and dug in. wheels covered.  i was usually riding in the back on a blanket holding the 'teeda'... i don't know if the rest of the world calls them that... teedas are the orange flags on a metal rod that you stick in the back of your moving vehicle that isn't a car or tractor... i'd wave it in the air like gramma told me my cousin jesse did and yell "teedaaa teeedaaa teedaaaa" just like she told me my cousin jesse did.

satisfied and laughing and smiling way too much to NOT look like we'd been up to something, we all (me, lize, nome, and gramma) would get off the three wheeler, dump out our five gallon bucket of fish on the grass (for the cats to eat at their convenience) and walk away. into the house. papa'd go outside. he'd HOOP and HOLLAR semi-jokingly at the, well, shitty state of the three wheeler. we'd all laugh. then, he'd get the hose and start to work, spraying the three wheeler's tires and the tire wells where crap was caked.  but that was only sometimes. other times, after we covered the three wheeler in crap and before we got offfff the three wheeler, we'd floor it? how do floor a three wheeler? the gas is on the handle bar... ahem. we'd drop the right wrist while firmly gripping the..right handle bar (and left one for that matter)...whatever. anyone know what i'm trying to describe? we'd give the thing GAS and do donuts around gramma and papa's big drive way so that the crap would fly off the wheels and make the driveway look like a pig lot. or something. anyway, it made papa mad. it wasn't just a lane...it was a big enough gravel lot that you could navigate big machinery easily and not whack the back side of the house. perfect for a wild craze on the three wheeler. one time mom ran papa's tractor through the machine shed door. good story. she was little. WHY was she driving a tractor? joe. (he's mentioned later)..

we'd all settle down. we'd make a party plate. liza's job. eventually all of us got in a bath. and then we'd watch tv. gramma'd peel and slice apples in her lap on the family room comfy chair and pass out the pieces of apple. papa'd go out to the kitchen and get himself a cookie and milk. throughout the course of the night at sporadic times, papa'd also make the most IRRITATING noises--literally like a fog horn (only fluctuating pitch lots more)--"waaaaaaaaaaaaaaawaaaaaaaaaaawuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh" we'd all yell, genuinely ANGRY, "PAPA! SHUT! UP!" haha he never did the first few times we'd ask. actually..i'm pretty sure our asking him to stop had nothing to do with his stopping. he'd just quit whenever he was good and ready to.

papa'd always tell us he was proud of us. even though me, a nine year old, hadn't really done anything with my life to have received his praise. but. he gave it anyway. to all of us. he also told us that if we didn't pick on him  he wouldn't know if we loved him.

he knew we loved him.

i can't really brag on my papa enough. yeah, he had his happy hour and smoked like a chimney but he was the best papa ever. really was a worthless mechanic but was good in wood working. he was a really decent pool player and he'd MAKE SURE we were all fair warned not to rip the green fuzzy fabric that coated the slate pool top. although, he never really came down to make sure we behaved ourselves in the basement (where the pool table was).. gramma wouldn't let him. she told us he was too good and that was why he couldn't play with us. he'd beat us in a second--ONE second--flat and we wouldn't be able to have any fun. so, we didn't let him play. i feel bad about that now. i wish he would've played us and i wish we would've gotten schooled. i would've put that in my 'best of memories' bank. ah well.

anyway. i miss my papa. p.s. hugging my uncle is scary similar to what hugging my papa felt like. they smell the same, they feel the same, they've got the same pack of camels in their breast pocket...like father, like son. glad for that. not the smoking part. i vote he should quit.

i miss my papa. what a guy. he loved my dad and he loved my mom. he loved my gramma lots too. ornery as she is. but he was stubborn to match. power couple.

i think that's it.