My earliest memories of going to visit Nan and Poo inevitably began at my own house. Every time we went to go visit Nan and Poo, we dressed up. Like we were going to church. And I hated it because it meant I had to wear tights. But beyond the tights, these visits meant all of my siblings and myself and my parents piled up in the car and made the 200 mile drive from Laurel to Richmond. Sometimes we would stop along the way and pick up Kentucky fried chicken for lunch and bring it to the house. Other times, we would bring lunch meat, bread and side dishes. Sometimes there would be other people visiting, like Aunt Emma, Aunt Sister, or even the neighbors Christine and Clifford. Each visit was different and each one was, in its own way, special. When Nan died in 1997, we still continued to make the visits. And Poo loved it.
Poo was a very special man. He was very involved in his church and the Young at Heart Club. The Young at Heart club would do activities on a regular basis and even take trip. Everyone at his church knew him as "Joe", or Papa Joe. His smile could light up a room and his distinct southern (not redneck southern) accent could be easily distinguished from far away. And he loved us kids. Oh, did he love us. My mother and her mother are only children and so the five of us were his only great-grandchildren. He had an abundance of neices, nephews, great-neices, and great-nephews, but there was a special place in his heart for us. One specific memory I have is at Christmas time. He had a set of mechanical trains that he would set up at Christmas time. These trains would circle around a small town where there were houses, and animal figurines and several other toys. The set-up was always the same, the trains always went in the same direction, they always made the same sounds, but we loved him and appreciated this effort he made for us. Yes, after several years we knew what to expect, but our parents instructed us to make an effort to appreciate the trains, even if it meant staring at them watching them go around and around for the upteenth time. Looking, back, I'm so glad they instructed us to do that - because those trains are something I will never forget.
At their house in Richmond, we were expected to be on our best behavior. This meant no jumping off furniture, or rough housing. We were to be polite and respectful and make sure we gave everyone a hug. Their house didn't have any kids toys and we didn't bring any from home so we had to interact with the adults. If we went outside to play, we had to use our imaginations and it meant all of us kids had to get along with each other. In the fall, my brothers would bring their football and play in the back yard. My sisters and I would be playing on the round cement blocks placed in various locations in the yard (I'm still not sure what their purpose was...)
Their house was a one story, two bedroom house and there wasn't much for kids to do. Nowadays, you'd probably see kids sitting on the couch absorbed in their smart phone or tablet. But not us. When I say we weren't allowed to, I mean it in a very positive way. Had we been allowed to be self absorbed, we would have missed out on the incredible opportunity to bring joy into people's lives.
Poo was an incredible man. He had a great sense of humor, a hearty chuckle and a big, warm hug. He was self sufficient and he took care of himself. One day, my mom got a call saying that he had experienced weird heart symptoms and the doctor diagnosed him with 4 blocked arteries. The only alternative was surgery. So my mom and I hopped in the car and drove down to Richmond to the hospital. He had no idea we were coming. When we walked into the hospital room, his eyes lit up and he smiled a big smile. He was even talking with someone, a friend who had come to visit, and he stopped the conversation. I think his heart was so full at that point. We visited for a little while and then went to pick up my Grandmother from the airport. We went back to the hospital the next day to see him into surgery. He was lying on the gurney, all prepped. The pastor from the church was there - he was big man with an even bigger opinion and I remember think that I knew he was doing a good thing, but I just wanted him to go away. As every one said their good-byes and their "we'll see you soon, Joe", the doctors were beginning to take him into surgery. I hadn't had a chance to speak to him yet. He said "Where's Catherine?" and I went up to his side. He held my hand, squeezed it tight and smiled. I can't remember if I said anything beyond "I love you" - all I can remember is his smile. They wheeled him away and we began the long wait in the waiting room. A few hours later, we got the news that he had made it through surgery. We were able to see him in the ICU. He was intubated and unconscious from the medications, but they told us to speak to him anyway. I went up to him and told him I loved him and that I would see him soon. My mom and I got in the car and made the drive back home.
He was moved to a nursing home where they would care for him during the post-op. In the nursing home, he contracted pneumonia. And on March 18, 2004, he passed away.
Every now and then, as I go over old birthday cards, I'll come across one from him, or even one from "Nan and Poo". I look at his handwriting and it instantly brings back memories of Christmases with the trains, playing in the yard outside, KFC chicken (when my mom would make us take the skin off, the best part!), the big old tv in the living room that we never got to watch, the green furniture on the back porch, the pictures of his daughter, grandaughter and great grandkids that were all over the house... He was a good neighbor, a good father, grandfather and great-grandfather. As the 10th anniversary of his death passes, I am reminded of his character, his love of life, his kindness and generosity, and his unwavering devotion to his family. Tights and all, those trips were worth it. Not only did they teach us how to interact with people, but they taught us to cherish every moment we have with our loved ones. And that is something I will never forget.
