remembrance

Remembering Granddaddy

/ J.K. / Leave a comment

This is a few months late, but after Thanksgiving and heading into the Holidays, it is as good a time as any. Coincidentally, he died on the previous Friday the 13th. My Granddaddy, James George Turner, died three months ago today, and it is hard to express the impact he had on my life. As I mentioned when writing about my Grandmother, I lived next to my grandparents from about eight years old until I left for college, and when school was out of the summer, my brother and I spent our days with them. They lived on a little more than 30 acres and Mrs. MMT actually lived with them for a few months before we was married (she has a unique name and with his accent, he never quite pronounced her name correctly). He had a huge vegetable garden in which he grew corn, butter beans, black-eyed peas, tomatoes, peppers, okra, etc. Actually, the last day I saw him, on Labor Day, he was telling me about the first time he grew watermelons. He didn’t expect them to grow so easily and he had a truck full, so many he couldn’t even give them away.

He was born on land that would become the airport (there is actually a grave site surrounded by the runways, where his [maybe great] granddad is buried). He served in the Navy during WW2 in the South Pacific. When he returned, he married my Grandmother, to whom he was married almost 73 years before she died. He got a job as a firefighter and eventually worked his way up to Deputy Chief, before retiring in the early 70’s. He also helped build and then manage an apartment building, and in his other spare time worked as a contractor and painted grocery stores; going as far away as ‘May-retta’ (this is only a 30 minute drive now, with interstates). With the sale of the apartments and his pension, he was able to retire around the age of 50. He was actually the oldest living pensioner at the time he died (he drew his pension for 45 years).

When he moved ‘out’ to their house, it was on a dirt road with a little Baptist church down the street that had just hired a new young pastor. They became friends and my granddad devoted most of the rest of his life to this church (then one in which I would eventually be baptized). The pastor is still alive and was able to do the funeral, which was the best one I’ve ever attended. Not only he spoke, but so did the pastor who replaced him. They could not say enough. He had chaired four building committees (to the older pastor, this was the biggest accomplishment), he taught Sunday School for 40 something years, and served one and off as a deacon. Apparently, people used to drive out to Granddaddy’s house just to talk with him and gain insight and wisdom. I was surprised as the pastor spoke, saying that my granddad had impacted 10’s of thousands and 100’s of thousands. My first thought was, well, that is probably a bit exaggerated, but he continued and said it could have even been millions. It was wild to find out that he was an even greater man than I already thought.

He either had a 9th or 10th grade education, I don’t remember which, but that was all there was then, and he self described as a ‘C’ student who bared finished. Despite that, he loved to read, and bought multiple commentaries on various books of the Bible (some of which were the same that I would buy 40-50 years later, we also had some of the same devotionals) and many well worn study Bibles. He took studying the Word seriously, and in one of the commentaries, I found a correspondence course he was taking on the Old Testament.

He loved to read, and along with his study, he read all the John Grisham books he could. I also remember staying with them over the summers and watching Matlock together. He wold often encourage me to go to school to be a lawyer (which was my plan, until it wasn’t). He also loved to fish, something else he and I had in common and a few years ago, when he realized he wouldn’t fish again, he game me some of his on stuff, including an original (1947) Mitchell 300 (the first ever open face spin-reel).

This is a story I only heard about recently, but he was so intent on leading his family and my Grandmother as a man of God, that back in the 70’s, I guess when they used to take more family vacations with my dad and sister, he bought a percolator that could be plugged into a cigarette lighter. In the mornings, he and my Grandmother would go out to the car, have some coffee and he would lead her in a devotional. I own this percolator now and was showing my men’s group this Sunday, as a challenge to them (and me) on how we should be leading out families/wives.

The stories I could write are innumerable, but I suppose I’ll wrap up here. Almost everything I learned about being a man (especially a Christian man), I learned form him. I was also named after him (though I go by another name), which seems to have given me at least some other level of connect (I also named one of my sons after him, with whom he is playing in the last photo we have of Granddaddy alive).

There is something so comforting having no doubt where he is, and knowing that he is with my Grandmother again. It is also challenging, as his example is something I aspire to (I have one building under my belt). Both he and her’s impact on their church is something we hope we will be known/remembered for many years down the road. As I wrote above, he impact on my life can’t be measured, not the impact on my kids, as I will always remember him as an example of how to act in life, as a man, as a father and husband, and as follower of Christ. I think he was aware of his role as the patriarch of the family and wanted to instill that sense of hard work and devotion on us. It is hard to be too sad when someone leads as long (he was 94) and active and fulfilling life as he did, but he will be missed.

Edit: One of the things I wanted to remember was how he had that supposedly bygone manliness of a past era, while (maybe ahead of this time, in that view) he still had a focus on relationships and gave them great value. Examples would include him pulling a stump out of the ground just a few weeks after having a stroke in his late 70’s, or re-shingling his roof, himself, in his early 80’s. All the while, he thought you should yell at your children or discipline them while angry and tried to impress upon me the importance of  putting work into your marriage, to listen and care for your wife.

Final Edit: The pastor, who had known him so many decades, said he exemplified Psalm 1, and I think that is a great summary of his life and really a goal of anyone who takes the Christian life seriously.

James Turner
May 11, 1925 – September 13, 2019

Remembering Papaw

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This is a few months late, but after Thanksgiving and heading into the Holidays, it is as good a time as any. For those outside the South (or Appalachian Mid-West apparently), Papaw (or some variant) is a name for a granddad. My Papaw was Jeffie Cleveland (J.C.) Hunt, Jr. He died back in July, a few months after turning 94.

My last memory of him comes from the Saturday before he died. I loaded up my month old twin boys, one of which has the initials J.C., after him, and Sprout to head down to my parents for everyone to meet them (and give Mrs. MMT some rest). Papaw was mostly in a wheelchair at this point, and with them being so small and he being old, he was scared to hold them. He had thick white hair (my mom tells me it all turned white in his 40’s, a trait I fear I may have inherited) and these intensely bright blue eyes; it sets up quite a contrast. I bring the boys over so he can seem them closely, he reaches up and grabs their feet with a smile and a little bit of a tear in those bright eyes. He died less than a week later.

Born in rural south Alabama, he was number seven of 13 children. His dad, J.C., Sr., was a Church of Christ pastor and a farmer. I inherited dozens of his books, some more than 100 years old, including a Bible he bought in 1920 for $20, which according to the US Inflation Calculator is $257.35 in 2019 dollars. Papaw joined the Navy when he was 17 and left of the Pacific Theater of WW2, where he learned to be a machinist. When he cam back, a family friend and lawyer thought that he’d be a good lawyer and was able to get him into Auburn, but formal school was not for him and shortly after someone offered him a job at a machine shop and he took it so that he could get married.

He was a quite man with a uniquely bright mind, he liked working with his hands. He completely built an entire house, the one in which my mom grew up, in the 50’s, and then built the cabin to which they retired in the 80’s. He turn an old VW into a dunbuggy when my mom was in high school. When the moved from the rural cabin to be closer to my mom in the 90’s, he turned the garage of that house in to a beauty shop (my memaw cut hair) then built a new garage (with a ramp to help the cats get over the fence), then built a workshop/barn out back where he experimented with different varietals of peas and beans (a decent one I remember was a black-eyed pea crossed with a lima bean). He had an interest in learning/keeping his mind going and taught himself guitar/dulcimer, attempted to teach himself Spanish (despite never having Mexican food until he was in his 80’s a referring to tortilla chips as Mexican Crackers), and he was my only grandparent who learned how to use a computer, internet, and even Facebook.

Another thing I’ll also remember about him was how much he liked ice cream. I can easily picture him younger, from the days we’d spend over there, wearing coveralls with no shoes hold that big tub of Neapolitan ice cream. I don’t think he ever had any until joining the Navy, and he told me while others spent their money on booze and women, he spent what he had on ice cream. When he was 85 he had a heart attach and had to be lifeflighted (the first/last time he ever flew) to a hospital in Atlanta. When I went to visit him he was eating ice cream. He told me it took him 85 years to go through the first heart, so he didn’t have to worry about wearing this one out (he didn’t have a transplant, just a quadruple bye-pass, but he liked to say he had a new heart, eyes (cataract surgery), and knees (reconstruction).

There are other stories, and we shared those with each other at the funeral, especially the wild stories about growing up in the South in the 20′ and 30’s, but this is already longer than he’d ever want written about him. He loved his ever-growing family (my boys make 18-20 great grandchildren, depending on how you count some) and especially liked Sprout (whom he said was a spitfire and a pistol) and some of the toddlers because they were so loud. He was near deaf for probably the last five years, but he could hear those screaming/giggling little girls. At holidays and lunches, he’d just sit and watch them run around, with a little tear in those bright blue eyes.

Edit: One more story, when he knew I was bringing the boys down, he had my mom get two 50 dollar bills, couldn’t be a single $100 to split, one for each of them for their college fund.

J.C. Hunt, Jr.
May 18, 1925 – July 12, 2019

Remembering My Grandmother

/ J.K. / 1 Comment

No book review today, as I am heading to a funeral. Louise Dueree “Dee” Turner, my grandmother, died on Monday morning. She would have turned 90 this August, but even more amazingly, in less than two weeks, she and my granddad would have been celebrating their 73 anniversary.

I lived next to my grandparents from about eight years old until I left for college, and when school was out of the summer, my brother and I spent our days with them. They lived on a little more than 30 acres and she had numerous gardens in which she grew Day Lilies. For decades she sold the flowers, but mostly the bulbs for others to plan in their gardens. Later in life, I’d come across people from surrounding cities and all they knew about my area was an old lady that sold bulbs to their garden clubs. One lady actually remembered there being two little boys running around the gardens.

Along with selling flowers she was in charge of the church kitchen that made the Wednesday night meals every week. She was an incredible cook and well known for her abilities. One of my favorite memories about her is the pancake breakfasts she would cook every Christmas morning. They also hosted massive Easter and Labor Day celebrations at their house that would have dozens and dozens of people attending, including her sisters and my dad’s cousins and all their children. She loved the beach and for years they and all her sisters and their husbands spent October in New Smyrna Beach. All this despite have had three hip replacements, she was so active she wore out her first one and needed a replacement.

Mrs. MMT actually lived with them for a little over two months while I was away at grad school and right before we were married. They watched old movies with Clarke Gable together and my grandmother enjoyed having her there so much, she would often try to convince me to have us live there for a while after we were married.

She first started showing signs of Alzheimer’s about eight years ago, and unfortunately it only become worse. She hasn’t recognized me or Mrs. MMT in a few years and while she always loved seeing Sprout, she was never entirely sure who she was. Maybe a year or so ago, she starting not knowing my parents and this past January we moved them to an assisted living facility with memory care from the house they built more than 40 years ago.

My granddad woke up around 5:30 on Monday and my grandmother told him she was cold, he got her a blanket and told her he loved her and went out to watch TV. When he checked back in on her a little bit later, she was dead. In some ways, it is comforting to know that she went quickly, and that if she suffered, it didn’t last long. However, for him, it happened too quick. He told me yesterday that he wished that he had been able to hold her just one more time.

As we talked about her yesterday, he said that she was a great wife and mother, that they had a long happy life, and that he could not have asked for anything more. Best of all, and the most comforting, is that I know we will all see her again. She’ll have no more hip pain, and she will remember everyone when we all meet again.

Dee Turner
August 31, 1928 – May 28, 2018