Thanksgiving at Papa’s

 

Papa as I knew him.

I remember Thanksgiving at my Papa’s house. How anxious I was to get there, bolting out of the car as soon as we arrived, my parents hollering for me to slow down. “You’re going to fall!” they’d yell, but I didn’t care. All I wanted was to throw my arms around that fat, happy old man and hear his laugh.

He did it every time.

The moment I walked in, the smell of wood greeted me—cedar and pine from the pieces Papa had crafted over the years. He was a carpenter, and his home carried the essence of his work. Mixed with that was the smell of food.

Papa was a big man who loved to cook and loved to eat—but more than anything, he loved feeding his family. Watching us enjoy what he’d made brought him so much joy. It wasn’t just a meal for him. It was tradition. It was ceremony. It was delicious.

Thanksgiving at his house was always special. Papa was a musician, too, and after we ate, he’d pull out his guitar and sing. My Uncle Teddy often joined him, and sometimes other family members or friends who knew how to play would chime in. It wasn’t just a gathering—it was a celebration. And for me, all I felt was love.

Both sides of my family are big, my dad’s and my mom’s, and I always felt safest in the middle of them all.

Thanksgiving also meant chocolate peanut butter cake and cream cheese pineapple cake. Papa knew they were my favorite, so he always knew that’s where I was headed when it came time to make our plates. This is when he’d usually remind me to be careful to take only what I’d eat. 

I miss the lines of family members snaking through his teeny-tiny kitchen, plates in hand, ready to pile them high with food. And I miss us kids slipping outside after we ate, running off to the woods at the edge of the yard, where we’d hang out in a clearing we all loved.

I remember Papa always talking someone into chopping firewood while we played outside. They didn’t always want to, but he needed the help—he was aging and not in good health.

Papa had a temper. I’ve heard the stories, and not everyone liked him for it. But I’m forever grateful that I only ever knew the good. He loved me fiercely and never made me feel unsafe or uncomfortable. He had two rules in his house: you could have anything you wanted to eat, but you’d better finish what you put on your plate. And when he said it was bedtime, he meant it.

I’d give anything to go back and hear him play White Christmas just for me. To see his smile, hear his laugh, and watch as he directed the men outside to stack firewood, skillfully avoiding the work himself.

My brother, Johnnie and I took my girls to see Papa on Thanksgiving 2008. He played guitar for my girls and sang for them. We took pictures with him; my brother and Papa, and Papa and I. I deleted the one of me and Papa because it showed how fat I was. 

Papa passed away the next day. The day after Thanksgiving. I will never forgive myself for deleting that photo and I will never forget the day he left us. I’d been at the hospital with him and he’d asked to talk to me. I was sitting at his bedside, holding his hand and he said to me, “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, so please don’t take it that way, because I love you. But please try to lose the weight, baby. Please don’t go out like this.” 

I don’t remember why I went home, but I will forever remember being in the car with Johnnie and my brother, headed back to the hospital. We got the call that Papa had passed and my heart broke in two forever. I didn’t get to say goodbye. 

I think of him all the time and try so hard to hear his voice in my head, to remember his laugh, to see his smile… especially at this time of year. I loved that man so much. And I miss him even more. 

https://youtu.be/1MyffF1Nrqk?si=LMfVdbOzuUxsz9jL

Papa as a touring musician, before I was born.