R.I.P. Papaw
Summers as a kid I mostly spent in North Carolina with my grandparents. At first it was with the whole family, and later I'd spend the entire summer vacation with them. The earliest memories I have of my grandfather are of him standing at his workbench spitting his chewing tobacco out the window while making picture frames. I don't remember exactly when he quit. The rest of the time we were at the beach. I vividly remember fishing on the pier, baking under the hot sun. Mamaw would slather me in SPF 6 sunscreen in a vain attempt to protect my pasty whiteness. I used tiny bits of shrimp or cutbait, and rarely caught anything worth keeping. I was very good at losing tackle and wasting bait.
When we weren't fishing, Papaw would take me out into the bay in the john boat as the tide was going out. We'd stay in the bay until the tide came back in and there was enough water to float back to the dock. The day was supposed to be spent digging clams. I ran about playing with half-dried jellyfish, swatting horse-flies, and avoiding the crabs that pinched at my toes. My rusty clam rake lay idle the whole day, and I never reached my quota of 100 clams. Ever. I sure did collect plenty of pretty shells and odd sea critters - much to the chagrin of Papaw and Mamaw.
There were rare occasions that I was allowed to stay home with Mamaw, back before they had air conditioning installed in the beach house. I only had to disappear for a few hours after lunch when the other ladies arrived to play bridge. Luckily, I was trustworthy enough to be allowed to visit the arcade by myself for an hour at a time. How I saved those precious quarters.
Evenings at the beach were spectacularly boring. If I was home in the afternoon I tried to claim ownership of both the recliner and the remote control. This ownership only ever lasted through the Golden Girls and Designing Women - sometimes into Jeopardy. There was also the permanant TV trump card. If the Braves were playing ball, the TV was showing it. I learned to despise the nights when the Braves were playing. Somehow though, I always had plenty of quarters when I needed to escape to the arcade.
Papaw was almost 84 years old when he died last Sunday.