Meet Stella!

A bundle of joy has arrived at our house in the form of a wild puppy.  We adopted Stella from Barktown Rescue in Bardstown, Kentucky.  (Aside on Barktown:  they are fabulous! They adopt animals from other shelters to keep them from being put down, and every animal is put into a volunteer foster home until a forever family is found. AMAZING dedication from everyone there.)  

Stella is a mix of we don't know what...a little lab... maybe a little collie... maybe a little rottweiler? But whatever she is, she's a whole lot of cute.

My mothering skills have been tested as Stella woke me up every night around 2 a.m. during her first week with us to go potty.  And of course that happened while Sean was in Canada.  She has already grown leaps and bounds and by the size of her paws she's going to be a monster.  Cassie is enjoying the company... most of the time.  :)  

Where the Streets Have No Name

I just saw the trailer for Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.  First, what rock have I been under that I missed this novel?  Second, I cannot wait to see how this story unfolds. 

A lot of things are making me think about my papa lately, and this movie definitely did.  It's just starting to really sink in that he's not going to be there the next time I go home for a visit, and that I won't be able to call him after Big Blue Madness to talk about the new freshman class of Cats.  But my goodness, didn't we have a full life of love with him? When so many people have their time with loved ones cut short, I certainly have nothing to complain about. 

I'm wishing that I knew more about papa, that I knew more about what he thought about the world around him. It's hard to imagine how much the world changed over the course of his life, but I'm not sure I ever  really knew his perception of it all.  Of course, that was also just papa.  Nothing truly got to him, bothered him, got him riled up or upset.  Couldn't we all use a dose of his temperment and peacefulness! 

I'm so grateful that his cancer was not long-suffering.  I'm trying to forget the difficult memories of his sickness, and cling to the last good day I had with him. 

I left work a little early to take a quick evening trip to Somerset to visit.  It was a few days after his brain surgery and he was doing really good.  When I arrived, everyone was out of his room and the curtains were closed.  I was worried... but he was just getting ready to go for his evening lap around the hospital floor.  That's right--this man who had just had brain surgery days before was up and walking around!

His cheeks were pink and his face was warm with his usual smile when he came out of his room with the nurse.  "Well Amos, what are you doing here?" he asked.  "I'll be back in a minute," he said.

A second nurse came to grab his arm, but my mom suggested that I walk with him.

"Come on papa, let's go to the prom," I said, hooking my elbow with his. 

"Now, it's been a while since I've done any dancing," he replied.

We started the lap around the hospital floor and he took off like he was walking for real exercise and not just for post-op therapy! 

"My Amos is teaching at Georgetown," he told the nurse.  Well, he told her twice actually... but that was just the brain tumor.  Nothing was going to stop how proud he was of his girls and nothing made me happier to hear him say.

He flirted with all the nurses as we walked by, and told me several times how wonderful they all were. I wish he could have stayed on that floor the whole time he was sick.  He felt safe there and they were SO good to him.  I think they liked being around him even more than he liked them!

After our little walk, I hung out in his room while he took a nap--or faked taking a nap, that is.  Mom whispered that the whole day, he would NOT shut up.  He'd close his eyes, and we'd go on talking, only to catch him smiling or chuckling at something we said.  Sometimes he'd scare the daylights out of us by suddenly chiming into a conversation when we thought he was long asleep.  I left that day when he was finally dosing off, but that smile was still on his face.  I don't know if he was really asleep or not.

He was wearing that same smile the day we buried him.

It's a tough time of year because this is when papa would normally started getting fired up for basketball season.  It's been really hard on my mom, but I'm trying really hard to imagine the questions papa has already peppered Adolf Rupp, Bill Keightley, and Cawood Ledford with up in heaven.  Something tells me him and Whiter have front row season tickets to all the games this year. 

And while papaw was the most humble Christian man I will ever know, I certainly hope the Good Lord cheers for the Cats.  Papa would certainly hate to cheer against God if he's Tennessee fan...

Waiting

I will always remember the day that Amy Winehouse died, because it's the same day that we found out my grandfather would have to fight a battle with brain cancer that he can't win. 

And somehow, Saturday morning, Amy Winehouse's death was a comfort to me.  Why? Well, I knew in that moment that at least my papa would live through his surgery.  There was no way God was going to put such a wonderful man side by side with a skinny crack addict at the Pearly Gates.  Come on. Can you imagine how that conversation would go?  I see papa giving her the once over and asking "what are you in for? do you think we should knock?"

But yet the day did not go how any of us would have hoped.  Not at all.

My papa is the sweetest, most jolly, most gentle man I know.  His smile and his laugh fill a room, and just being around him puts you at peace and at ease.  He's just a happy guy.  And he should be a saint; anyone who can bear three generations of nothing but women and keep his sanity for 76 years deserves a special place in the Lord's House. 

He comes from a generation of men that are never going to be replaced in this world.  He comes from a community that is fading away. They are group of people from Ferguson who all know the same phrases--they're all "azzling around" everywhere they go.  He's from a childhood of running around farms, throwing corn cob husks so fiercely that they leave the dents of the kernels in the other boy's back (Hayden Waddle can personally attest to that!).  He's from a time when his dad could come home with a goat sitting in the front seat after a night of gambling (and we're still not sure if the goat was part of his winnings or losings)! 

I often forget that he, with his brother Max, built a business that has sustained our family for 60 years.  That he handed over to my father because he had no son of his own to pass it to--and my dad has always been like a son to him.  I forget that he was a handsome man in his day (and still is), even though I have the picture of him working in the lab as a young man, white t-shirt rolled up, hair slicked back looking young and vibrant  and mischievious and a little like Ryan Gosling in The Notebook. 

There's so much we don't know.  That maybe we will never know.  About who he was as a brother, a husband, a man, before the kids, before the grandkids and the great grandkids.   We have all kinds of stories--because he tells them well and laughs at himself the whole time like he's sharing it for the first time!  But how well do we every really know the people we love?

To me, he's just papa.  And he always has been.  He's been a constant in my life, always there, no matter how much I have cared to spend time with him... or not. And of course now we all wish we had more time.  In a family of two daughters, four granddaughters, and two great-granddaughters, some how we all feel like we are "papa's girls."  We all have a different relationship with him--that's obvious.  And yet each of us have our own special "thing" with him... our own unique and secret bond that makes each of us feel like he loves us the most.  Which of course isn't true because he loves us all in his own way and has somehow loved each of us year after year, never fading in the love he has to give.

Over the past few days, I have been humbled and honored to see that he didn't just love us; there are so many people in our lives that he has shared friendship, fellowship, and kinship with.  And those people, in return, have poured that love back to him and us in return.  Family, friends, member of his church--all have come to stand beside his family in a time of need.  Even if there's nothing that they can do to help, they are offering up their solidarity, compassion, and love. 

And it is humbling to see that those people love the same things about this man that his family does; his laugh, his smile, his warm hello, and his love for the daily pleasures in life; a good cup of coffee, a morning drive to "azzle" around and visit friends and family, and a Sunday morning with the men in Sunday school.

It is not fair.  There is not a man who deserves the things that lay ahead less than my papa does.  There is not a man who deserves less to be threatened with the loss of his speech, his memory, his laugh, his dignity.  And yet I cannot think of a man more capable of meeting the path that God has chosen for him with more grace, more composure, more peace.  Dad said that papa has always said "when it's your time, it's your time."  None of us are ready for this to be his time.  And we don't know how much he has.  It may be a few months; with his attitude and some radiation, maybe a little more... maybe a little less.

It is a fight that he has to fight knowing that he cannot win.  And we have to watch it knowing just how much we are most assured to lose.  But he has been responsible for giving this family a wonderful life. And I know that we will find the strength to stand by, spend time, and wait out this final journey for as long as it takes.  I only hope we can keep smiling his smile, laughing his laugh, and finding comfort in his peace.