Shynonie's Shorts

Describe Someone You Love

My papaw was a strong man, a man who walked with the knowledge of his life's experiences weighing heavily on his steady shoulders; perfect for a child to ride and to feel like they were seated on the top of a moving mountain. Long legs never rushed their stride, illness or health never changing his pace. His movements were slow but he himself was fast, but that's common when you're taller than the average man. Well loved home that was always kept clean and in order was the foundation for the positivity in my life, wood floors creaking with the otherwise soundless steps of his movements. Low chuckles fit for a villain only held warmth and fondness when they rang clearly through the cool air that surrounded him.

Kind old eyes followed a young child's movements with love and care, the child undeniably safe whenever she was in his sight. Despite his seemingly cold exterior and ever present neutral expression that could be mistaken for an unhappy one, this man was nothing but a gentle giant willing to do whatever it took for those he loves. Home orderly thanks to his time in the navy of which he only told stories of his unexpected adventures and near death experiences, he had seen the world and felt his home was where I grew. He could've gone anywhere, yet he chose here. Large hands holding a bit of chill and dryness from age and constant use were incredibly strong and steady whenever his love for vehicles drove him to take them apart and rebuild them in the same breath. Old paper with older maps fading on their pages, dusty clothes and foreign coin tucked away for safe keeping scented a closet or two that seemed rarely used.

A bedroom unused by us but held two motorcycles that he knew how to take apart and rebuild without the guidance of others or the pages of an experts book. A quiet man with a loud mind full of otherworldly knowledge and experiences roamed freely in his mind and were free to be told when asked just the right question. His anger was the silence before a storm, skillfully contained but just as terrifying as the storm raging ocean waves he himself had almost been lost to many years ago. His art was not in paints or poems, it lay in weathered hands holding tools and tucked away in the books lining a basement wall. His art lay with his experiences and knowledge he gave out at just the right times and in just the right amounts.

His heart so large he couldn't take animals, for he knew how devastatingly broken he would be come the day he would inevitably have to part with them. Like what seems to be most men, he claimed he didn't like the very dogs that did their best to save me so many times; but on warm peaceful mornings when I woke with the sun, I could peek out of the kitchen and catch him sharing the ham and eggs he made himself for breakfast with the two dogs he claimed not to want around in the first place.

With every hardship and bad news coming from the outside world or from a child's nightmares, he never complained. He had the patience of a saint and was as protective as large loyal wolf protecting a human it had imprinted on from birth. Come bad news, the gun in his desk was prepared and ready to be taken out of the desk drawer it was kept in. For a quiet man with slow and steady movements, his love for adventure brought a fond expression to his face every single time he reminisced. With every story of lion cubs hogging his couch, a donkey that earned the title of jackass, raging bull elephants charging the vehicle he rode in or the group of baboons that had nearly taken his and two other life's, he never once talked badly about an animal. Not even the loud chirping birds living in a dangling wood house on the front porch, or even the small fuzzy creatures that dug up his garden or too close to the houses foundation.

He was a teacher with no license or class, a librarian with no library, Indiana Jones with no whip and the Doctor with no TARDIS; his blue Pontiac didn't count and didn't make the same sounds as a certain police box. A zookeeper with no cages, a craftsman with no true workshop, a seemingly endless well of knowledge that never dried up despite the heat of summer beating down unforgivingly on it. He was a man that took in my best friend who later earned the love and title of my sister as his own grandchild like myself. A man who knew what to do no matter the injury or situation, who feared no storm that could come our way and take the house to Oz where he would undoubtedly meet his mother once again. He didn't need a map or a GPS to get anyway, always knowing where to go and what to do.

He taught me kindness and the small amount of patience I have today. He was a feminist, a man on the right side of history that openly showed his disgust in police brutality when we happened to find ourselves looking at the news for a minute too long, a man who knew exactly what he would've done if he had all the money in the world; all he would've done was help, not himself but others first. Papaw was a man who I trusted without question. Someone who never asked for a hug but was always willing to give it if I were to ask. A man who understood my CPTSD brain, a traumatized heart blocked off from nearly everyone but never him. His comfort was quiet, calm. His facts weren't sugarcoated or watered down, but never used in an outright argument or as a means to cause someone harm. A man who saved the lives of men he didn't like because it was the right thing to do, not because of his uniform. He was not his uniform, he wasn't the suit I have never seen because he had let it rest in a place that gave it water damage and led to him throwing it away instead of trying to get it fixed. A man who's spite created mine, who joined the navy during the draft not because he was told to but because he made the choices to enlist himself instead of let the government tell him what to do. He was me without the hardness and cruelty I've developed in an attempt to protect my fragile self from any more damage breaking me all over again. He would give you whatever you needed should he find you on the streets and you were bold enough to catch his eye and ask for help.

His hair greyed over time but remained combed and slicked back just the same as the days he held no wrinkles on his skin or his leather jackets. I teased him, calling him a greaser while my grandmother would've undoubtedly been a square. I picture his past like the old Crybaby movie with a young and adventurous Johnny Depp. Only his movie would've contained animals and stories of old magic coursing through a stubborn parents veins with the search of love on the back burner. He only loved once and that was enough, despite whatever heartache led to that love falling apart, his respect and affection for that part of his past never left but led to new friendships and fond memories. I firmly believe if given a platform and whatever else he would've needed, he and he alone could've turned the world to a better direction by now. I'll keep his stories alive, full of their adventures and details that may not seem important but are everything to me. Regardless of this bloodline ending with me, his knowledge and spirit will not. He'll live on as long as I do, never to be forgotten or hidden away.