[title subtitle=”words & Images: Stoney Stamper”][/title]
Sometimes life is hard. That’s a very insightful observation, I know. Real deep stuff, huh? What can I say, I’m a radical revolutionary. This stuff just flows from my veins.
Yeah, I know saying life is hard is terribly cliché. But let’s be honest, most clichés are clichés because they’re true. And I can think of nothing more true than life is hard. That doesn’t mean that it’s always hard. Quite the contrary, actually. Life is an ever-changing landscape of peaks and valleys. Sometimes it feels so easy, when it’s filled with happiness and colors and laughter and beauty. These good things are what keep us going during the hard times and during the sad times. It’s important to remember these wonderful and happy things when the going gets tough, or when things aren’t so rosy. I’m having one of those rough patches right now, and I am having to constantly remind myself over and over again of how blessed I am, and how happy I am with my life.
Sometimes the hard times are tragic. It’s heartbreaking to see others who have to endure tragedy such as car accidents, or losing loved ones to sickness and disease well before their time. Other times life simply runs its course — naturally. Every race has its finish line, I suppose. And from where my family stands, my papa’s finish line isn’t so far away. His race is nearly run.
I have been pretty fortunate in my life. I haven’t suffered any real tragedies involving my family or close friends. I haven’t lost any immediate family to sickness. Only twice in my thirty-five years have I lost someone close to me. In 1992, I lost my granny Stamper to Lou Gehrig’s Disease, and in 2001 my great-grandpa died just one month shy of his 105th birthday. Yes, you heard me right, 105 years old. And he got married when he was 104. True story. So this is fairly new territory for me. For all of us.
My papa, Claude Stamper was born and raised on my family’s ranch in Murphy, Oklahoma. It’s right between Chouteau and Locust Grove, four miles off of Highway 412. It’s the only place he’s ever known. His mama and daddy lived there, and died there. He raised his four boys there with my sweet granny. My dad and his brothers raised all of us there. And now we’ve got the youngest generation of Stampers on the ground. Some of them live on the ranch, some off, but still in the same lifestyle that we were all accustomed to. The lifestyle my papa and my great-grandad provided for us.
Sometimes, it didn’t seem so awesome, growing up that way. When most of my friends went home from school to play video games, or just do nothing at all, my brother, sister and cousins were busy cleaning stalls, warming up and cooling down horses, feeding and bathing horses, cattle, pigs and sheep. It was a lot of work. It didn’t seem like a blessing at the time, but looking back on it now, that’s exactly what it was.
We were taught a strong work ethic. But we weren’t made to work while the adults sat in the air conditioning. We were led by example to work hard and do your best. My dad, papa, and even great-granddad, would work from the time the sun came up until it went down.
When my great-granddad (we called him Granhappy) had gotten too old to work for our house moving company, he took up carpentry. He spent his twilight years building some of the most God-awful carpentry projects you’ve ever seen in your life. But it didn’t matter to him. He just needed to work. And besides, he couldn’t see well enough to know it was crooked and ugly.
I get a bit misty-eyed, reminiscing about those times spent with Granhappy, and with my Granny and Papa Stamper. Those times feel like so long ago, but their voices are still so clear, as though they’re in the other room. My granny calling my papa “Claudie.” Granhappy and his wife Dorothy singing “Come and Dine” at church on Sundays. The memories are fresh and vivid. My papa patting granny’s knee, and saying to me, “Stone, ain’t she just the purtyest thang you ever seen?” And the answer was, Yes, she was just about the “purtyest thang” I had ever seen. She was so kind and gentle. So meek and mild. But she could ask for anything in her soft and sweet voice and he would move mountains to make it happen. He loved her with all his heart.
After forty-four years of marriage, she succumbed to the complications of ALS, on December 28, 1992. It was a hard blow for our whole family. But even more so for my papa. He had lost his best friend, his confidante, his “pardner.” His life was changed forever. On the day she died, I spent the night with him at his house — it felt so big, so empty. Then the next night, I stayed again. And then again the next night. I had inadvertently become roommates with my papa. We were like a couple of lame college kids living together. He didn’t know how to cook, and I didn’t either. We had coffee and toast every morning, until I learned how to make eggs and bacon without catching anything on fire. My mom or my aunt or my cousin came and did laundry for us, until we learned how to do that, too. Papa liked to bake brownies, and he did so nearly every day. We developed an odd little routine. He was glad I was there and I was glad to be with him. I watched him and listened to his wheeling and dealing on the phone. He was selling, or buying something to sell, every time he talked to someone, and I got my first sales lessons just sitting around and listening to him. These were lessons that would serve me well, and mold me into the man I am today. As time passed, he needed me less and less, but the bond we built in that year and a half is one that we still share today. I love him. I know he’s not perfect. He’s funny, generous, and a great storyteller. But he can be strict and very hard on people, which just so happens to be traits that I possess. Granny was the perfect yin to his yang. She was the perfect mellow to his hard edges. He never remarried. Oh, he had some girlfriends. But he never married again. I guess he thought that he couldn’t do any better than he had done with Clarice June Plake. And I happen to agree.
These last few years have been hard ones for him. A small, withered body now stands where a once big, strong man stood. His voice was loud and boisterous, but it’s now weak and muffled. His old legs are bowed from too many horses, and just a few weeks ago he fell and broke his hip. He’s had surgery, and has had some complications. He lost a lot of blood, and not enough oxygen made its way to his brain. His mind was slipping before the accident. He’d call me nearly every day, asking me to come drink coffee with him, which I would’ve gladly done — except for the fact that I live in Texas now, about six hours away. A fact that he forgets every time he calls me. Now, since the accident, he’s having difficulty speaking at all. When I walked into the hospital to see him, my dad said, “Stoney is here to see you!” And Papa said, “Who?” I expected it going in, but I still wasn’t prepared for it. Will it improve? I don’t know. I hope so. His old hips and knees are battered and arthritic from years of riding horses and then crawling under houses with the house moving company. Will he walk again? I don’t know that either.
Right now, we have more questions than we have answers. The selfish side of me prays that he will walk again, that he will talk again, that he will remember again. I’m not ready to let him go. I want him to tell me a story, to laugh, to drink a cup of coffee. None of us wants to let him go. He’s our last stronghold on the great generation that raised us. The ones who taught us morals. The ones who took us to church. The ones who taught us to help our communities and our nation. Papa is the last one we have. He’s lived long enough to see his wife, his brothers, his sisters and his parents die. What a lonely feeling that must be.
When I put my selfish feelings aside for a moment, and remember how badly he misses my granny, how long he’s gone without feeling her hand in his, or hearing her sweet, soft voice whisper his name, then, and only then, do I feel a sense of joy wash over me. Although I’m not always a good example of one, I am a Christian, and I do believe in heaven. My grandmother has been there for nearly twenty-two years. Just waiting on him. And on the day they are reunited, I’d give nearly anything to see their faces when their eyes meet. Oh what a day of rejoicing that will be. It makes me want to let him know it’s ok. “Papa, you can go now. You’ve taught us all that you know. You’ve given all that you can give. We’ll be ok. Go see Granny, and we’ll see you sometime soon.”
I wanted to tell him these things as I reached down over his hospital bed to hug him and kiss his head. But instead, I just said, “I love you. SO much.” And with a sparkle of recognition in his eye, he looked at me and he mumbled, “I love you, honey. You’re a doll,” just like he had a million times before. To me and my siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles, “I love you, honey. You’re a doll.”
I tell myself, Tomorrow, I’ll tell him that tomorrow.
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Stoney Stamper is the author of the popular parenting blog, The Daddy Diaries. He and his wife April have three daughters: Abby, Emma and Gracee. Originally from northeast Oklahoma, the Stampers now live in Tyler, Texas. For your daily dose of The Daddy Diaries, visit Stoney on Facebook or on his website, thedaddydiaries.net.
