Renaissance Man

Looking up.  Looking way, way, WAY up.  And I see his face smiling down at me.  Knee-high to a grasshopper, and he is the grasshopper, his legs stretch up to the clouds, his hands reaching down to pat my head.  My Papaw, Howard Kesler.

I wish my daughter could have known him.

Soldier, Mechanic, Musician, Storyteller, Hunter and Gatherer.  Grandfather.  So tall, strong.  Frail.

I do not remember ever climbing on his lap to cuddle, although I probably did, but I do fondly recall sitting at his feet to listen to his stories, or watch mesmerized as he played the fiddle or the harmonica.  I remember following him around in his garage as he tinkered with cars, my wiggly chatter to his hushed methods.  I tried hunting once or twice; he would watch in silence, and I would scare away the squirrels.  There was Lady, beautiful black dog following her master, and two squealing little girls chased them both while the older boy was off searching the woods for adventure.  Louisiana country life at its finest.  Soaring pines, rusty swings, sunflowers taller than me, lightning bugs and butterflies.  A Southern kid's dream.

Or nightmare, if you remember the wasp stings and ant bites, stifling humidity, incredible thirst, and the annoying little sister shooting her BB gun at you.  The truth is, I would have preferred being inside playing with the Barbies by myself, but I am thankful for the times my grandmother shooed me outside to enjoy the sunshine, and my grandfather's quiet company.

He died when I was sixteen, slowly withered away.  I still look for his deer head on the wall when I visit my Nanny, and I picture him in his rocker, his teeth out, jaw working overtime, telling stories and laughing like only he could.  I miss the carport full of tool boxes and that metallic smell of well-loved drill bits and hammers, familiar dust and sweat.  I can't hear a harmonica and not see his long, skinny arms moving, his head bouncing back and forth and foot tapping the beat as he hypnotized the crowd.

I did not inherit his memory or his penchant for spinning yarns, his Post-Depression-era habits, height or shape, but I am thankful to see some of his qualities passed on to my daughter.  She lives to tell stories about her day to anyone who will listen, and her delight shows in her eyes when others laugh with her.  She moves with music, cries with the sad songs and bounces with happy ones.  She loves puzzles and tries to fix things.  Like my Papaw, Angelyn can do anything she sets her mind to do, and she can do it well.  Angelyn may not have any memories of him, but his legacy is there for all the world to see.

And I have one of his harmonicas, one of my treasures, in my pink hurricane box, next to my daughter's first pair of shoes, my husband's favorite baseballs, and my wedding scrapbook.