We lost our Papaw unexpectedly this past weekend. We've made it through the initial shock, the rush of making final arrangements and attending the viewing, funeral and burial, and now the impact of both his life and his loss is starting to settle in. I don't want to forget any of it, and I want my children to know and remember him too, for few men can live up to my Papaw. So, lest we forget, here's my tribute to Papaw.
Charlie Sales was born and raised in Ellijay, where he learned the importance of family and hard work. He met the love of his life there (at the local Dairy Queen). And though he moved to the big city to work and raise a family for many years, he was never too far from a trip "up home" as we called it. I can't think of or hear of the town of Ellijay and not think of him. Riding in his old station wagon around mountain roads, crackly gospel music playing over the radio with him singing along in his bass voice. If you gave him a kiss on the cheek on the way home, he may even stop at the Dairy Queen (the same one where he and Mamaw met) for an ice cream.
When he was growing up in Ellijay, he, like all boys growing up in the country I suppose, learned the skills of hunting, fishing and gardening. He was full of stories of setting musk rat traps that he would have to check in the dark early morning hours before school started each day, waiting in deer stands on dark, cold nights, and the infamous time he caught a pair of minks. He always (and I mean every year that I can remember) had an abundant garden until this past year when his health and circumstances prevented it. It was the delight of his day to be able to walk through the rows of beans, squash and tomatoes in his garden. A close second was being able to show off his bounty to everyone else. In his opinion, a day without gardening was like a day without sunshine. Even in the dead of winter, he was planning and dreaming about the upcoming growing season (and recruiting helpers to stake poles for him when the ground was warm enough). Even when his garden was being taken over by cuckle burrs, he took joy in the work to preserve his garden from this pesky weed that threatened to choke it out. When I think of him, I will always envision him wearing dirty overalls and muddy shoes with a little sweat on his brow - the way he was when he was happiest.
He was one of the hardest working men I've ever known. He used to work a full time job and then come home to work in his garden. After he retired from Sears, he worked several other part time jobs (and always had his garden). Even these last few years, when he was at an age where most people have long given up on working, he loved to work at the apple house, helping to sort apples. A day or two before he passed, he was still talking about going to sort apples. Perhaps it was because they needed the money, but more than anything, I think he appreciated the value of a hard day's work.
Spending time with and providing for family was a non-negotiable for him. Every year (save this one due to the current pandemic), we have a family reunion at Fort Mountain. His mom, my Great Grandma Sales, used to send postcards to all of us reminding us of the date (where her rendering of "Fort Mountain" always seemed to look like "Fart Mountain" in her handwriting to our childish eyes). He, too, would always make sure we knew about it. It was only a really good excuse that would allow you to miss this annual event. That's how important family was to him. When I was little and my mom was newly divorced, raising two young children on a meager income, Friday night was always a big night for us. You see, in the Sales family, that was the night you went out to eat and went shopping. No matter how little money he had, he always had enough to buy us something special on Friday night. From as early as I can remember, he always came bearing gifts (usually in the form of produce from his garden or a bag of apples).
When it came to watching television, there were really only two options for him: Atlanta Braves baseball or westerns. He would tolerate us watching something else, but you knew he would rather be watching one of those. He and Tony would always spend a few minutes talking about the latest news about the Braves.
He was an early riser. Whenever we would go on vacation or when I stayed at his house when I was little (or he stayed at mine more recently), he was always the first one up, making the coffee, bacon and biscuits. The last few times that he stayed at our house, we had some good conversations about life, the garden, gas prices, my work (he always wanted to know about my cases), and how much corn was going for at the store while we waited for the coffee to brew. They were precious moments that we shared before the rest of the family arouse.
He had a terrible sweet tooth. Cakes, cookies, apple pie, banana pudding - he loved it all. The past few months we had been taking the opportunity to have family dinner once a week. I always tried to cook something he liked, but it was getting harder and harder to please him and his finnicky tastes. Our final family dinner, just six days before he died, I was determined to make something he would like (as the weeks before had been duds - he would always keep me humble by telling me that this dish was too sweet or this one needed more salt or that one wasn't his favorite). I decided to go for a proven winner, his known favorite: banana pudding. Indeed, he ate a large helping of it that night and finished it off over the rest of the week, though I am told that he confided to Mamaw that it needed more vanilla wafers on the bottom, of which I have taken note. Nevertheless, it makes me happy to know that some of his last meals on earth included one of his favorites that was made specifically for him out of love, though I know it pales in comparison to the feast he is currently enjoying.
He usually didn't say a lot, but when he spoke, you listened. When he would raise his eyebrows and drop his chin, you knew he was just about to impart to you a nugget of wisdom earned by many hard years on this earth.
He didn't ever have a lot in terms of material belongings, but he was a rich man. He had a family who adored him and a house full of love and laughter. The few material belongings he had, he was always so generous with.
He wasn't overly affectionate, but we all knew he loved us. A bag of apples here, a call to check on a sick child here, his steadfast presence through thick and thin - he showed us his love by his actions. I never remembered him saying "I love you" to any of us until recently. He didn't have to. His actions spoke louder than those words ever could, just as they should.
He had much to be proud of, but he was the humblest of men, never bragging - unless it was about the size of the zucchinis growing in his garden or how quickly he sold out at the farmer's market the weekend before.
Perhaps the most striking and awe-inspiring quality of my Papaw was his steadfastness. He was always there for every birthday, every performance, every get together. As I think of it now, his presence has been an underlying current of our family. He wasn't loud or boisterous, but his steady and calm demeanor always made his presence felt and known. I think that's what makes his passing hard now. Even at the funeral, I couldn't help but thinking several times, "Where's Papaw at?" before I quickly caught my mistake. He's just always been there, but now he's not.
While we all grieve our loss of him, we rejoice in what he has gained, not because of his good works but solely because of his faith in Jesus. I know without a doubt that as soon as his soul left his body, he was greeted in Heaven with a hearty, "Welcome home, son!" and "Well done, my good and faithful servant." He's free to partake in as much banana pudding (with the perfect amount of vanilla wafers) as he desires. He made it up home to harvest the last of the tomatoes and just in time for apple season. And he and his creator and savior can walk through the garden, free from cuckle burrs, marveling at the great things He has created and done.
Thank you, Papaw, for all you did and were for all of us. We love you and miss you so much.
