One of the things I will remember most about Pappaw is his hands. By the time I arrived, he would have been in his mid-fifties, and his hands were already weathered and worn, but he remained kind and gentle.
His hands had done so much hard work on his family's farm growing up, followed by his service with the CCC, and of course, the war. His hands would pen letters to my grandmother during the war, using code to let her know where he was stationed. In an era when "loose lips might sink ships," they wrote each other and would casually mention a fictitious neighbor, whose initials revealed the first two letters of the country he was in. During World War II, they often wrote about Bill Underwood, whose initials were code for Burma.
My favorite war story, though, was what Pappaw did upon receiving news that the war was over. Although he never drank after he returned home, he did celebrate the occasion properly at the time. Having knocked a few back, he also decided to have a cigarette with a buddy...while sitting on a drum of high-octane aviation fuel. A friendly passing MP suggested that perhaps they should enjoy their smokes somewhere else.
During the war, he became a keen rummy player, a skill he handed down to me during my early elementary years. We spent hours at his dining room table, drinking iced tea and playing hand after hand. I will always remember my parents' faces the first time their six year old beat them at cards.
My grandfather's hands often packed tobacco in the pipe he smoked. I'm not sure what prompted him to quit, but I'd like to think that Kindergarten Alyssa's constant pleas had something to do with it. (My dad said that they had everything to do with it.) When I told him a few years ago that my own now-husband was quitting smoking, he inquired as to how he was doing it. I answered that he had gotten a prescription, and Pappaw responded with a smile and said that in his day, he had quit over a weekend, using only a single bag of lollipops. Unfortunately for my grandmother, this was true. It was just the way the Greatest Generation did things.
My grandfather worked tirelessly on their farm, using his hands to raise all sorts of animals--cows, chickens, pigs, dogs, and cats. I adored cows because he raised them, and had a soft spot for one in particular: Peewee was a calf born prematurely that my grandfather both delivered and fed, as his mother's milk had not come in yet. One day on the farm, I noticed Peewee was gone.
I asked Pappaw, "What happened to Peewee?"
Pappaw hesitated and then replied, "Well, Alyssa, he was an Angus."
Seeing how upset I was, he then quietly said, "You know, I should have kept him for you."
When the farm cat delivered a litter in the chicken coop, it was Pappaw's scratched hands that handed me one of the kittens to raise. (Note: when I read this, I said that the cat delivered a litter of chickens. It's a mistake he'd get a laugh out of.) Thirteen years later, I still have him, and we often talked about him, and I would show Pappaw pictures of him. I frequently lamented that the cat never learned how to meow. Pappaw reminded me that he was born in a chicken coop, and had I ever asked the cat if he could cluck?
Pappaw's hands were quite busy whenever he took me fishing, which entailed him doing most of the work: threading the line, baiting the hook, removing the fish, and throwing it back. He also taught me how to drive by letting me drive the truck to the neighbor's farm on Gum Spring Road. Because I was about nine and my feet were too short to reach the pedals, I was in charge of steering and shifting, and he worked the accelerator, brake, and clutch. My parents didn’t know about this until I told them last week. Imagine their reaction.
Seven years later, when the state of Virginia decided I was old enough to drive, I wanted to buy my first car. Pappaw offered to match every dollar I earned. Fortunately, I inherited his work ethic, working at TML on weekdays and at parks and rec on the weekends. I bought a Pontiac, which met his one requirement that the car was manufactured by the Allies, and not the Axis.
Although he only finished eighth grade, he was one of the wisest people I knew, and a strong supporter of my own schooling. He read voraciously, and those same hands wrote checks to cover my textbooks while I was in college. When I bought my first house, he gave me enough cover closing costs. I couldn't be more proud to live in Loudoun County, just a few miles from Pappaw's farm, and the house and barn he built with his own hands.
As we both aged, his hands grew shaky because of Parkinson's, but he remained determined and funny. His sense of humor was undeniable, and one of his greatest gifts to me. Although people tell me that I'm funny, in a room with Pappaw, my Uncle Ron, and my dad, if there was a humor contest, I would come in last. The best was the dating advice. When I first started dating Chris, Pappaw called and wanted to know: "Is This Anything?"
"I don't know, I don't have a very good track record so far," I told him.
"No, you don't," he lovingly replied.
Another time, I called him at the hospital as I was on my way to see a chick flick with my girlfriends. Pappaw asked where Chris was, and I said he was at home. Pappaw told me "you better not do that too often, or you won't have a husband to come home to!"
"What are you, Dear Abby?" I asked him.
He then reminded me that he had been married longer than he had been single.
Of course he loved my grandmother, but a big topic of conversation between the two of us was the nurses at the hospital, as he would often ask them out on dates. He would then ask me "you don't mind if your new grandmother is younger than you, do you?"
Thursday before last, I was so fortunate to hold Pappaw's hand one last time. It was bruised, but still strong. I thanked him for all of the blessings he had been to me as his grandchild. I thought of the story in Matthew when the little children were brought to Jesus, so that he could pray for them. Matthew 19:15 tells us that "he placed his hands on them and blessed them before he left."
And so it was with my Pappaw, Clyde Verner. He placed his hands so intentionally, he blessed us so richly, and he left. Now he is safe and has been made whole in the everlasting arms, and hands, of the Lord.
Amen.
In true Shame Squad Fashion, here is your picture of the British Monarchy.
His hands had done so much hard work on his family's farm growing up, followed by his service with the CCC, and of course, the war. His hands would pen letters to my grandmother during the war, using code to let her know where he was stationed. In an era when "loose lips might sink ships," they wrote each other and would casually mention a fictitious neighbor, whose initials revealed the first two letters of the country he was in. During World War II, they often wrote about Bill Underwood, whose initials were code for Burma.
My grandfather's hands often packed tobacco in the pipe he smoked. I'm not sure what prompted him to quit, but I'd like to think that Kindergarten Alyssa's constant pleas had something to do with it. (My dad said that they had everything to do with it.) When I told him a few years ago that my own now-husband was quitting smoking, he inquired as to how he was doing it. I answered that he had gotten a prescription, and Pappaw responded with a smile and said that in his day, he had quit over a weekend, using only a single bag of lollipops. Unfortunately for my grandmother, this was true. It was just the way the Greatest Generation did things.
I asked Pappaw, "What happened to Peewee?"
Pappaw hesitated and then replied, "Well, Alyssa, he was an Angus."
Seeing how upset I was, he then quietly said, "You know, I should have kept him for you."
 |
| This is actually a picture of Pee Wee! I keep it on my fridge. |
I would occasionally complain about the cost of vet bills. Did you know that cats can get asthma and need an inhaler? Pappaw would then offer to refund my full purchase price.
Pappaw's hands were quite busy whenever he took me fishing, which entailed him doing most of the work: threading the line, baiting the hook, removing the fish, and throwing it back. He also taught me how to drive by letting me drive the truck to the neighbor's farm on Gum Spring Road. Because I was about nine and my feet were too short to reach the pedals, I was in charge of steering and shifting, and he worked the accelerator, brake, and clutch. My parents didn’t know about this until I told them last week. Imagine their reaction.
Seven years later, when the state of Virginia decided I was old enough to drive, I wanted to buy my first car. Pappaw offered to match every dollar I earned. Fortunately, I inherited his work ethic, working at TML on weekdays and at parks and rec on the weekends. I bought a Pontiac, which met his one requirement that the car was manufactured by the Allies, and not the Axis.
Although he only finished eighth grade, he was one of the wisest people I knew, and a strong supporter of my own schooling. He read voraciously, and those same hands wrote checks to cover my textbooks while I was in college. When I bought my first house, he gave me enough cover closing costs. I couldn't be more proud to live in Loudoun County, just a few miles from Pappaw's farm, and the house and barn he built with his own hands.
"I don't know, I don't have a very good track record so far," I told him.
"No, you don't," he lovingly replied.
Another time, I called him at the hospital as I was on my way to see a chick flick with my girlfriends. Pappaw asked where Chris was, and I said he was at home. Pappaw told me "you better not do that too often, or you won't have a husband to come home to!"
"What are you, Dear Abby?" I asked him.
He then reminded me that he had been married longer than he had been single.
Of course he loved my grandmother, but a big topic of conversation between the two of us was the nurses at the hospital, as he would often ask them out on dates. He would then ask me "you don't mind if your new grandmother is younger than you, do you?"
Thursday before last, I was so fortunate to hold Pappaw's hand one last time. It was bruised, but still strong. I thanked him for all of the blessings he had been to me as his grandchild. I thought of the story in Matthew when the little children were brought to Jesus, so that he could pray for them. Matthew 19:15 tells us that "he placed his hands on them and blessed them before he left."
And so it was with my Pappaw, Clyde Verner. He placed his hands so intentionally, he blessed us so richly, and he left. Now he is safe and has been made whole in the everlasting arms, and hands, of the Lord.
Amen.
*****
In true Shame Squad Fashion, here is your picture of the British Monarchy.