A real mans man.

I dont remember much about my grandfather (pictured above). I called him PawPaw.  When Brooke and I found out we were pregnant, my dad didn't know what he wanted to be called.  At first he wasn't sure about being called PawPaw.  He held his dad in such high esteem, I dont think he wanted to be compared to Burbon.  I also think that part of it was that no matter how far away you get from the death of someone you love and admire, it still stings when you think of them.  Being constantly reminded of that hole that can never be filled, would be too difficult for some.  But just like my PawPaw wasnt your average man, neither is my dad.  I sortof convinced him that he needed to be called PawPaw too.  Everything good that I saw in my PawPaw, I also saw in Dad, and then some.  Everything important about my PawPaw, I knew that Dad could teach to my kids.  In my opinion it isnt a burden for Dad to now be called PawPaw, it is an honor. Each generation getting better and better at being PawPaw. And some day, God willing, some grandbabies will call me PawPaw.

My PawPaw died when I was about 8 years old, and for the last few years of his life he lived 12 hours away in Jacksonville, FL.  Most of what I do remember are things that you don't really want to remember.  I remember when he got sick, I remember when he get sick enough he had to move back to Louisville.  I remember the last Christmas he spent with us when he was a fragment of himself before he passed.  I remember waking up on January 11th and seeing my Dad home from the hospital, knowing that this meant his dad had passed the night before.  Those are the memories that stick out in my mind.  Occasionally, some random things pop in my head.  I remember the old astro turf he had on his back porch.  I remember some of the toys he had for us when we came to his place.  In fact, I damn near remember every inch of his townhome in Jacksonville.  The smells, I can remember his distinct smell. He smelled like a man. In a good way.  Every once in a while I will catch a wiff of it from something else and I think back on PawPaw.  I remember the outside smell of his place in Jacksonville, FL.  "Alligator farts" as we would call it.  It was really just the sulfur springs.  I guess I remember a lot about PawPaw's surrondings, but I dont remember much about him.  And that's okay.  I am thankful for the time we did shared, when too often you never get to share that generational bond.  A bond that I am so glad my girls get with their grandparents.

My grandfather's name was B(o)urbon.  They didnt spell it right, so he went through his whole life with his name spelled Burbon.  The story behind why he got that name is another blog for another time.  I have found myself talking about him a ton lately at work.  Almost as if I really knew the man, but I didnt.  Much of what I know, I have learned from my dad.  I think that was one of Burbon's best lessons.  He taught Dad what it means to be a faithful and loving husband, as he was to my grandmother.  He taught Dad what it means to really be a father.  He taught Dad what hard work means, true dedication, and the most important word between men.... loyalty.  Just about every quality you could ever want in a person, that was Burbon.  While he never really got to teach those lessons to me, he did teach them to my dad, who in turn passed them on to me.  I guess that was really PawPaw's greatest lesson.  Love.  He would be proud that I am trying my best to pass those lessons he taught my dad on to his great grand babies.  But of all the things he taught Dad, there was one thing he did teach me directly.

The other night after dinner, I found myself cleaning up while the girls were getting their showers.  I was still sort of hungry and wanted a snack.  It had been a long trying week, I needed something good.  Well, there wasn't much to choose from in the pantry.  It consisted of a bunch of organic stuff, baby food, and organic baby food.  One thing did catch my eye, graham crackers.  I hadn't really had them in a while and I figured it would do.  Graham crackers on the surface are not a very good treat.  Sort of bland, sort of tasteless.  It is something that Hadley likes, but after all, she hasnt had anything but paste like substances, a few french fries, and boob milk.  With all due respect to I'm sure the top notch milk that my wife produces, Hadley isn't the best judge at what is good food. But then I remembered something I used to do when I was a kid.  I remember dipping my graham crackers into milk.  It is an amazing combination when you dip your graham crackers into a glass of cold milk.  I can vividly remember sitting on a counter top with my PawPaw and doing that same thing with him.  He taught me what a great snack that was.  We don't have any pictures of it, so I know my memory is a legit memory, not just one of a photo.  I remember being in our house on Helmsdale and he was visiting from Florida. I remember it like it was yesterday.  Graham Crackers and milk.  Thanks PawPaw.

In a very serendipitous moment, two days later,  Reagan grabs the box of graham crackers from the pantry and gets up on her bar stool (something her PawPaw would be proud of).  She says "Dad, can you get me a glass of milk?  You used to eat this with your PawPaw, and its good."  I couldn't help but laugh and also fight back a tear.  Apparently I had already taught her the lesson my PawPaw taught me.

Every day I go to work,  and behind my desk where I sit is the above picture.  Burbon holding his youngest grandson with the beat up eye from falling down the stairs.  Sometimes I look at it for strength, sometimes I look at it and laugh.  No question though, somewhere in Heaven PawPaw is proud.