Nov. 7, 2012
The sun is rising over the hills of his farm as he sits on his back porch drinking coffee. I can smell the coffee as I walk around the corner of his house. This is the very house that he has lived in most all of his married life and the house in which he died. He doesn’t say anything to me as I climb the stairs, but his manner is always comforting and welcoming. This man was my papa.
Papa is my mother’s father. He was born Fredrick Adams Jr. He had been called Fred, Junior or Adams, but I always thought of him as my papa. My earliest memories of Papa are him sitting in his lounge chair watching TV. He never spoke to me or me to him, but our respect was mutual and understood. My mom says Papa mellowed with grandchildren, but I never knew him any other way. I felt his love even if he never showed it openly.
Papa was the most distinguished man I have ever known in overalls and a baseball cap. He took great pride in his appearance especially with his weight. He stood about 5’ 7” tall, thinly build, blue eyes and balding. When he dressed to go out, the overalls would be clean, neatly pressed and his cap would be placed on his head at just the right angle. These last minute adjustments could be made as he looked into the mirror placed on the wall beside the back door.
Papa spent every Saturday at our home helping Daddy on the farm. He had a wonderful work ethic that oozed from him surrounding him like a cloud. When anyone entered his cloud, they felt the desire to reach his level of self expectation. Few people ever mastered this, but worked diligently nonetheless. Papa loved the satisfaction of a job well done. He was a silent man, but a respected man. He showed me respect and love each time he let me climb all over him and never complained. I will always remember his silent touches.
I have my papa’s last name as a part of my own name which gives me a great deal of pride. I’m proud to be associated with such a good and decent man. I’m proud to say that this name came from a man who never bought anything on credit. I’m proud to live on the Adams Farm, knowing this great man died at his house, on his farm, drinking his beer, after a satisfying morning of hard work.