In a couple of blogs I have mentioned my Papafather.  I decided to write about him tonight so you can find out more about him.

The term Papafather comes from a children's book called Hugo and Josephine.  Josephine loves her daddy so much and thinks he's so wonderful that she can't just call him Papa or just Father.  So she called him Papafather.  After reading this story I decided that's about how I felt about my daddy, so that's what I began to call him. 

Part of what makes my Papafather so special is that he loved me as one of his own.  He adopted me when I was three.  The only thing I remember about  that day is that, I wore my blue velvet dress, and the judge gave me a safety pop.  To be honest I don't think I even knew why we were there.  Papafather had been my daddy since I was a baby.  I didn't find out that he wasn't my real father until I was in fifth grade or so. 

Papafather was a great father.  I don't remember ever being spanked by him.  He must have handled my early years quite well, because it never occured to me to go against what he said. I remember only one time where he lost his patience with me.  I was a teenager, and had been quite a stinker towards my mother.  A stern comment, so to speak, and I remembered exactly how I was supposed to behave.

Whenever I was troubled I would go out to his shop and sit there watching him.  Sometimes I didn't need to say anything, just being there watching him putter about made me feel better.  Sometimes I would ask him a question or two or pour out my heart and he always knew exactly what to say.  Most of these conversations would wind up with him explaining how the universe was made by an amazing God.  You could just be asking him to help you with a simple math problem and he would explain it, all the way back to God.  This could be frustrating for a child who just wanted to know how to figure out how far Train A and Train B had gone if they left at the same time and one traveled faster than the other.

When I was about nine or so, I remember hiding under a table.  When Papafather found me there, he hunkered down to talk to me.  He could have asked me to come out, but he didn't.  He asked me what was wrong and I told him that I wanted to run away.  He told me that sometimes he wanted to run away too, but he had responsibilities and he couldn't abandon them.  This surprised me!  My dear Papafather wanted to run away?  Maybe he didn't love me!  Then he told me that because he loved us all, his responsibilities, he wouldn't run away and hurt us. 

Papafather was very, very smart.  Most children think their fathers are, but many people said that mine was.  His boss thought he was so smart that he arranged for Papafather to take the Mensa test to become a member.  He missed joining by one question.  He had worked all day, drove all night to get there in time for the test, and he was tired.  Everyone agreed that was the only reason he didn't get in.  Is that even possible for a genius to be tired and not be able to answer questions?  I don't know.  I do know that you only get one shot at the test, and my poor Papafather missed his chance to be an official genius. 

While I was growing up we spent quite a bit of time at dirt tracks.  Papafather was a motorcycle racer, on dirt ovals.  He didn't do it for a living, that time was spent as a well driller.  My mom, sister and I would cheer and cheer for him.  He did pretty well and he had lots of trophies on a shelf out in the shop.  I liked to play with them, and just admire how pretty and shiny they were.  I remember lots of late nights driving home from races that were far away.

As a well driller, Papafather's work took him away on many occasions.  On one occasion my mom took me to the drill site to spend some time with him while she took my sister to a special dentist that was several hours further away.  It was in the forest and Papafather laid out our lunch on a large stump that had two smaller stumps near it.  A perfect set up, for a little girl to have an enchanted luncheon with her handsome protector! 

One summer my mom sent me with Papafather to another drill site.  We went away for the whole weekend.  The drill site was boring for a 12 year old girl.  I spent most of the time reading in the truck.  One of the reasons why the trip stuck out in my mind is that we only ate Oreo's for lunch.  This was quite a thrill for a child who usually was only allowed two cookies at a time! 

The other thing that made this trip memorable was the drive home.  It was a three hour drive on a very straight road through very flat country.  Papafather was tired and he asked me if I wanted to drive!  What 12 year old would turn that down?  I slid behind the wheel and headed out on the road cautiously.  There was practically no traffic but I was nervous.  I looked over at Papafather and he was sleeping.  I said outloud, "What happens if we crash and die?"  Papafather asked drowsily, "Do you want to die?"  "No," I replied.  "Then don't crash." 

I have hundreds of memories of him, and I am so very thankful of that.  Maybe in other posts I will write about one or two.  When I was 19 some dear family friends came to tell me that their had been accident. 

We all knew that Papafather would not live to a ripe old age.  He didn't eat well, smoked, and was under a lot of stress.  He would start each morning with a cup of coffee to stimulate his nerves and the news to stimulate his brain.  He would stomp off each morning ranting about the government.  We expected him to have a heart attack or cancer.  It was neither of those. 

Papafather was shot and killed.  He died instantly.  We were all left without the most wonderful man on earth.  In our eyes he was right up there with God.  I named Girl 1 after him.  It is painful enough to think of my own memories of him, but to see those of his old racing buddies, drilling partners and family is even worse.  Many of those are still lost without this wonderful friend and brother. 

Papafather would have loved my children.  Not just because they would be his grandchildren, but because he loved children.  Each one would have been special to him in their own way.  Girl 1 for her red hair and name, Girl 2 for her love, and the boys because he always rooted for the underdog.  I look at them and wish that they could have known him.  Their lives would be so much the richer for it. 

I wish I was half the parent that Papafather was, but I try to show and tell my children as much as possible about their wonderful grandfather.  They call him Papafather too.  It helps to keep his memory alive.  I am so thankful that Papafather chose my mom and me.  How can a guy turn down a chance to live with a brunette and a blonde and make them his own?  He was a genius.