Greatest Generation

One my earliest memories is of my mom holding the phone up to my ear and hearing my Pappa (her father) say in his thick southern accent, "Show me your million dollar smile girl!"  I would grin ear to ear and he would pretend to see it through the phone and admire how pretty it looked.

My dad grew up in Idaho and my mom grew up in Kentucky.  My mom's family moved to Illinois when she was a teenager and my dad moved to Illinois to go to college.  They met, fell in love, married, and bought a home down the street from my mom's parents.  My older brother and I were born, and then, when I was just over a year old, we moved to Boise, Idaho.

So, for the first year of my life, I was really close to my Mamma and Pappa.  After that, I grew up seeing them every summer.  We traded off.  One summer, they would come to visit in their gigantic motor home with their wiener dog named "Corny," because he was golden brown like a perfectly fried corn dog.  Corny was so strong, he could pull us on our skateboards using a leash.  We gave him baths in the upstairs tub.  I still remember how his short hair felt stiff when it was wet and lathered with shampoo.

I loved that green and cream colored motor home and I shudder to think how insensitive I must have sounded when I would ask my Mamma and Pappa to leave me their motor home after they died so I could live in it with my family and we could travel the world.

My Mamma was a sweetheart and always had spearmint gum.  She passed away shortly before I got engaged and she is now laid to rest in a picturesque cemetery in Kentucky.

Every other summer, when I was growing up, we would make the grueling trek east to Illinois. Thirty hours in the car.  Twenty-four after they raised the speed limit when I was a teenager.  

I remember watching out the window as the world changed from mountainous and colorful to monotone flat green fields of swaying crops.  It was such a shock to the system to suddenly hit humidity in the middle of the hot summer.  Those car rides built endurance.

But, once we got to Illinois, it was a wonderful reunion.  We liked to play in the giant gravel piles, catch fireflies, take long motorcycle rides with Pappa and smash pennies on the railroad tracks.  I loved standing close to the tracks and feeling the rush of the trains going by.  I loved the beautiful home cooked meals by my mom and my aunts and My Mamma.  

My grandparents had a bunch of bicycles in their garage and several times during our visits all of the aunts and uncles and cousins would ride to the Dairy Queen for the most modern treat -- blizzards -- in so many different varieties we could spend the whole time just talking about the endless possibility of combinations.

My Pappa was born in 1923.  I always thought he was the tallest man around, but, it turns out he's just six feet even.  He lived through the Great Depression and spent three years of his life serving our country in World War II.  He will be 87-years-old in September of this year.  He has put more than 500,000 miles on his motorcycles in his lifetime.

Up until last year, he was still driving a Harley.  

Until last spring when the car in front of him stopped and he didn't and the wreck was so bad it broke his neck.  The Doctor said it was a very serious break and should have killed him or at least paralyzed him from the neck down.  After several near death encounters and weeks in intensive care followed by many more weeks in physical therapy, he made a full recovery, proving what I had believed all along:

That he is Super Hero.

Last Thursday, guess who showed up on my doorstep?

Without any warning, he got in his car and drove 26-hours (plus two hours that he stopped to sleep along the way) to Utah for a surprise visit.  

How amazing is that?

I've loved having him here for one more chance to hear his stories.  My Pappa can talk for hours.  He is the teller of stories.  And, I don't want to forget them.