A Post by Mary

Papa Duck My Grandfather, Walter Robert Duckworth

We went to Tifton, Georgia often to see my grandparents.  It was the “gathering place”, much like my home is today.

I was a teenager the last time I saw him.  He had been sick for what seemed like months.  The first time I had an inkling that something was wrong was when we “went to town”.  That was the all-in-all destination on Saturdays in Tifton.  The kids waited and waited for the adults to get dressed up to go to town.  Mama Duck put on a pretty dress but left her hair in pin-curls so it could be combed out the next day for church.  She would wrap a scarf around her head and off she’d go.  I think I saw her in pin-curls more than I saw her without them. It always struck me funny, even at my young age, but that was the way it always was and always would be.

It seemed like it took forever before we would all climb into the car for the ride down the old red clay road until we reached the paved roads that meant we were almost there.

Mostly it was one street but it had everything!  There was a movie theater, two five and dimes, a drugstore with a soda fountain, and Belks, where we could usually find Mama Duck and Mother, and an aunt or two. Then there was Papa Duck’s barber shop, where we loved to go and see Papa Duck and Uncle Bob. We were always treated with a five cent bottled Coca Cola.  I remember when they went up to a dime of all things.  But we were special because we knew the owner and he would open the coke “machine” up like a refrigerator door and give us kids our own for free.  On one such trip to town I was told to go with Papa or follow him or some such, and keep an eye on him so he wouldn’t get lost.  They said he had hardening of the arteries.  Sadly, it wasn’t long before he was bed-ridden.

On another trip to see my grandparents I was standing by his hospital bed that was set up in his own bedroom, ready to say good-bye. He was holding my hand and squeezing.  And squeezing.  It must have been my class ring, or rather Richard’s.  All I could think of was the pain.  For such a frail little man he had the strength of someone much younger.  I couldn’t wait until he was through loving on me.

Then there was one last time, probably a couple of weeks later.  I can see him as if it was yesterday.  Papa was reclining in one of those fold-up aluminum and plastic “lawn chairs” by the front door.  My Daddy was standing to the side as we all said our good-byes.  Papa reached for my hand and said, “if I never see you again, I want you to know how much I love you”.  I just stood there, tears beginning to fall on my cheeks, without saying anything.  I couldn’t.  That was one of those moments I wish I could have a do-over.  If only.  I loved him so much.  Grand-parents were different back then.  At least for me.  I only remember one or two occasions that stood out to me when we really interacted.  I’m sure there were more but I remember only a couple.  One was when he was going to the barn and invited me to go with him to gather eggs.  The other was when he was in the kitchen, washing dishes.  I asked him if he liked washing dishes, to which he replied that he did, as it gave him time to think about things.  That was rather odd to me since it was my most hated chore.  Since then I have stood at my own kitchen sink washing dishes, even though I have a dishwasher, thinking, mostly of my Papa Duck, standing in front of his sink, thinking.

He was a quiet man.  If only I had pulled up a chair and asked him about some of his thoughts.  I would probably be a lot smarter.  I know I would have gained more insight into this mystery of a man I longed to know better.  As I stood there taking in the fact that my Grandfather had just told me he loved me for perhaps the first time, at least the first time that I remember, my Daddy took me by the shoulders and hugged me as he led me out of the house.  Yes, it was the last time I saw him alive.

He died on Good Friday and was buried on Easter Sunday.  Ironic.  The day that Jesus arose from the grave, Papa went into it.  But because of that day, I have the hope and promise of seeing him again.  And I promise you that I will pull up a chair and ask him all those questions I’ve been storing up for him.

Later my Daddy told me that those were the last words Papa had spoken. Perhaps he’s going to have a lot to say too. Just perhaps.

Mary Reid
March 8, 2022