All I knowed was my
life: for nearly thirty years, I sweated in the Louisiana sun, fighin off
snakes, workin the earth till harvest, and pickin that cotton one boll at a
time till my hands was raw, groawin my own food, choppin wood all winter long
to keep from freezing to death, statin all over in the spring. That ain’t no bad life if your labor is for
your own land. But it wadn’t… Same kind of different as me p.63
My Papa’s life
can’t at all be described as Denver
describes his life in this passage from the novel, Same Kind of Different as
Me. Yet, he was the first thing that came to mind as I read
the story. Denver
is a young black man in the early 60s
and working for “the Man” as a son of sharecropper in Red River Parish Louisiana. My Papa grew up in rural Georgia,
picking cotton on fields to help his mama earn a dollar to feed her large
family. With 17 children, the Worley family was quite a clan. Clarence Walter Worley was one of the
youngest and one of the toughest in the family.
Last night a few of the girls and I were
talking about families. The theme was dysfunction (I was just
listening as I didn’t have much to input); however in both stories, the grandfathers were introduced with the
phrases “the sweetest man,” “he’s so great,” and “such a sweet heart.” I couldn’t help but
think to myself, “I wish ya’ll could have met mine.” It was refreshing to hear modern, twenty-ish
women praise their
grandfathers. Too often those the same
age as our grandparents get cast as: senile, strange, old, out of touch,
traditional, etc. It is a grave misfortune that society writes
off so many wonderful people who are praise-worthy grandparents to others.
Yesterday I had
the chance to visit the Hope House
here in Manzini. It is a half-way house
for the chronically and fatally ill.
Dreamt and built by an Irish Catholic Church and supported by local
sponsors and international donors, The Hope House provides dignified life for the sick.
I really enjoyed visiting the patients and their families. My favorite was this very old couple sitting outside enjoying the
pleasant winter weather. They were
deeply wrinkled and smiling. We shook hands, but that just wasn’t enough for
me; I bent down and hugged them each. I
received strong handshakes and
kisses on both cheeks. J It was
evident that they adored the strange guests and gestures of love.
This does tie
back to my Papa. I have a heart for old people. I remember always loving my Nan and Papa, their friends and their
peer group. Visiting the Hope House
couple, hearing the girls’ stories, and then reading the book this afternoon,
has sparked memories and feelings
for my Papa. Like the man in the book,
Papa grew up into a hard life. He worked
long hours on hot days for very, very little.
Like my friends’ grandfathers, mine was “as sweet as molasses” and without a doubt, my
favorite man in the whole-wide world.
Like the man and wife, he was old and had eyes that smiled. He loved having talks and making
friends. He believed in goodness,
kindness, charity and gentility.
Every day I miss
my Papa. Everyday I pray that He is
proud of me. I ask the Lord for
direction to live my life as a bright, shining beacon for His saving
grace. My Papa lived his life as an
example for others and I hope the same can be said for me.
