Joseph "Joby" Abbott Walker, Sr.

*Thanks for reading today's post. Due to life getting in the way (aka 'stuff happens') I am writing another post NOT directly associated with autism. I promise to get back in the swing of things, but had to just write about what was on my heart. I hope you will stick around....thanks, R*



Today was a cold, bleak January day...

I couldn't believe the temperature change from one day to the next, and then I remembered I lived in middle Tennessee. I grew up in Alabama, and we could have extreme weather too. But, those 250 miles north give it just a little more bite. A bit more than this southern girl likes. 

So, today's weather sort of matched my mood.

I wept as I drove in to class early this morning listening to a song a friend wrote about the stuff of life. I woke up in a funk- which usually happens when I have to be coherent before 6am- but today's funk was different. 

I experienced a death last week that I did not realize I was not ready to accept. My grandfather, Papa, died suddenly at the age of 85 in his home in Alabama. I include his age only because, while it is an 'old' age, there was nothing old about this guy's spirit. I have perused all of my pictures I have of him, and in every one, there is such a twinkle in his eye. There is so much life in his face. So, I think I just took for granted that I could travel to Bama and see he and my grandmother whenever I wanted to. The old cliche that you just think someone will be around forever.

The stud that he was!

I realize that the past few posts I have done have not been specifically about autism. But, I hope you will indulge me and let me share a few stories about Papa. They're not fantastical, but they are funny/special to me. 

It was rumored that my grandparents' house was haunted. My grandmother would often say that she would just say hello to the 'ghosteses' as she would call them. Whenever my parents would go out of town for any length of time, I would end up staying with my grandparents who lived right next door to us in this ginormous house. 

Their house was huge in my mind as an 8 and 9 year old. There were 3 bedrooms upstairs, but I would always prefer to sleep in the study which was next to my grandparents' bedroom. One time, my best friend, Katy, came to spend the night. We would scare ourselves thinking about the ghost stories and get ourselves so worked up about them. But, we secretly loved it. 

So, there we were getting ready for bed in the bathroom in the long, dark hallway. We were looking in the mirror brushing our hair and teeth and whispering to each other. 

All of a sudden, completely out of nowhere, Papa jumped out behind us to where we could see his reflection in the mirror. His hair was wiry, crazy, and going all over the place. He had on a white v-neck and white boxers, and his eyes were bulging out of his head.

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

We screamed like we have never screamed before! Even after we knew it was him! It felt like a good 30 second scream.

His response was always the same after he teased one of us.

"GEEETCHEEEEEEE!!!!"

I think this was supposed to be the country version of "I got you", but it worked nonetheless. He got us. And good. 

He howled with laughter while I beat on his back out of frustration, but mixed with a ton of relief that the ghosts had not descended upon us.

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Papa grew up on a farm in the middle of the depression in the 1920's. My dad would often say he was 'depression scarred' because he would do things like leave paper towels out to dry. Or, he would fix EVERYTHING with this stuff called Shoe Goo. It didn't matter what the problem was, or if the problem really just needed to be thrown out, Shoe Goo was the magic touch. Yes, you could fix your shoes OR you could fix the seal on the window, or patch up an old lamp, or frying pan whose handle had broken off...didn't matter. It also didn't matter to him that it was urine yellow in color when it dried. 

My family is much more concerned with function than form.

One time on a beach trip, my grandmother, Gran, as we call her, bought me a pack of cinnamon sticky buns to eat for breakfast. As kids do, I left the package partially opened all  night on the kitchen counter while I slept. 

When I woke up the next day, a pack, gaggle or herd of ants (not sure of the term there) had made their way up along the bar and into the entire package of cinnamon rolls. They were crawling in ecstasy as they were over every inch of my now ruined breakfast. 

As I looked to my left, I noticed that Papa had a huge jar of honey that he had gotten from his cousin's farm. The ants, not to be outwitted, had made their way under the brass Ball jar top and into the honey. It looked like someone had taken a pepper shaker and poured bits of pepper all in the honey. You could tell these ants had their dying wish to drown in this ocean of golden, yellow delight. 

I felt so guilty for leaving the package opened all night and ruining Papa's favorite honey. 

"I'm sorry, Papa. I've ruined it."

"WHAT?!!  Nah! There's nothing wrong with this honey." 

And, I watched in horror as he spooned out tablespoons of honey and spread it all over his English muffin. He closed his eyes and ate it like it was something served on a silver platter. There was no way he was gonna let that whole jar of honey go to waste-noooooo sirrrr!!!!!  

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I could tell you stories of how he kissed everyone he met- grown men included. I could tell you about his loud, but beautiful, tenor voice that he pridefully sang all the harmony parts of the hymns in church. 

I could tell you about all the times we would swim in his swimming pool in the backyard and play tag. 

I could tell you about the road trips he would take me and my two boy cousins, David and Daniel, on: to the beach, Tennessee, Mississippi, ski trips, and family reunions.

I could tell you that he would always wake me up in the mornings with the same farm boy song that his daddy used to sing to him about two cows called "White Foot and Light Foot":

                           Wake up, White Foot.
                           Wake up, Light Foot.
                           Come and follow Jesse to the milking pinnnnn.

To this day, I still don't really get that song, but I love that it was his routine. And, it was his little thing.

I could tell you about how he always, without fail, had Wrigley's spearmint gum in his mouth because he said it helped him clear his throat. I knew where his stash was in his office, and I would help myself to a pack or two every once in a while. (sorry, Papa)

And, I love the fact that I got to spend the most time with him in years because I was the oldest grandchild. 

I could also tell you about the time a few years ago he said something so hurtful to me in passing. It cut me deeply. And, a year later, as I was sitting beside him, he looked at me and said he was sorry for what he said. He knew it was wrong, and would I forgive him. 

That healed me. 

Sorry's were not thrown around much growing up. So, his sorry meant something profound. 

I could tell you all about the godliness of this man. A man that consistently pointed me to Jesus. A man that cried a little bit every time he said the blessing (and his blessings were always a little too long!). A man that tasted and grasped the Gospel. A man that asked everyone (much to my embarrassment) if they went to church, and if they did, did they tithe. You gotta love a man with conviction and heart. And he had both! 

Papa and his cute little Christmas vest!

I guess I just wanted him to know all of these things. I wanted him to know the impact he had on me as a little girl and who I am as a mother today. So....I guess this is me doing that now.

And, as I share these memories, my mood lifts. I get a smile on my face. It gives me encouragement to be a legend in my own sphere of life. To touch those around me in ways that are meaningful and life-giving. To bring joy to seemingly ordinary days. To always laugh. And always be grateful because there is so much abundance around us every day.

This was my Papa. And, I love him.