Every Day That Passes, I Become More Like My Papa Melvin

My papa was a simple man. He yearned for a life where all he had to do was wake up, make his coffee, tend to his garden, smoke his cigarettes on his deck outside, read his books… make pancakes from scratch, watch the stars at night, go to sleep, and then do it all over again the next day.

That is all he wanted. How do I know this? Well, I spent a lot of my childhood talking to my papa on those very decks and front porches. Watching him chain smoke and listening to him ramble about any and everything. I clung to every word. For the vast majority of my life, my papa lived in an apartment with my Mema and their two cats. It wasn’t the life he wanted, but he lived it anyway just to stay close to family and make my Mema happy.

After a while, he said, “Fuck this… I’m moving to the country. Either you’re in or you’re out!”

My Mema, as fierce and as vocal as she was, was not about to let my Papa leave without her. So she went along with him, and they moved to the Hill Country.

It was in these last few years of my papa’s life that I saw him at peace the most. I wouldn’t say happiest, but at peace. There is a difference between the two.

See, my Papa was a Vietnam War Vet. He was boots on the ground, in the middle of it all. He was also a “tunnel rat.” A soldier that would go into narrow, dark tunnels and detect booby traps, the enemy, etc. He never knew if he’d ever come out of one of those — thank God he did. However, going to war, fighting for this country, and coming home to nothing? Kinda took the life out of him, just a bit. Even when he came home, made a family, got a job, a place to live, etc… I don’t know if my Papa was ever truly HAPPY. I mean, with a past like his (and that is only the smallest of fractions of his life), how can one ever truly be happy go lucky? Ya know? Til the day he died, he still couldn’t sleep through a thunderstorm because of his trauma from Vietnam. That tells you everything you need to know.

My papa never went to therapy. He didn’t have a load of money waiting for him when he came home, a house in his name, nothing. He was working minimum wage jobs to make ends meet. You think about being a veteran and coming home to THAT! Society is very fortunate that he didn’t lose his mind, which I think would’ve been very much justified.

That’s not what this is about though.

What I’m getting at is… my papa just didn’t care about a lot of shit. He did, but he also didn’t. He loved his family with his whole heart, he attended graduations and weddings, he smiled and laughed and had the biggest voice in the room. But he also just didn’t care. He cared about certain things because those around him cared. And he didn’t want to disappoint them.

All my papa truly cared about was his peace. And at a certain point in his life, he was not about to give up having peace for anyone.

They moved to the Hill Country into a little cottage-style home, and he adored it. He loved their little town and his garden that he started. He loved walking us around, showing us all of the historic buildings, parks, and trails. Where he liked to get a good burger in town, the post office, and courthouse. He loved that there wasn’t any traffic and that he could walk almost anywhere he wanted to go. He loved the peace at night and the amount of stars he was able to see in the sky because there wasn’t all that city bullshit in the air.

He loved reading his books. He always kept his nose in a book, and I loved that about him. He loved his coffee. He loved his pancakes. He just loved simplicity. He didn’t care about technology really, other than his favorite movies he loved to watch. He hated phones and computers. If someone from the future met my papa, they’d think he was a weird, bitter old man.

But he was far from bitter.

He was just… tired from everything he was carrying (including his traumas). And in that tiredness, he found a way to compartmentalize and focus on what truly mattered to HIMMM. Not everyone else — him. And that was peace. It wasn’t happiness. It was just peace.

My papa would always say he didn’t care if he lived or died, he’s just here. He didn’t care if he had a hole in his jean shorts he wore everywhere. He didn’t care if his boots were falling apart. He didn’t care if the shirt he had on had bleach stains on it. He didn’t care if his hair was sticking up weirdly or what he looked like in the mirror. I actually never saw my papa stare into a mirror, and I spent a lot of time with him growing up. He didn’t care if plans didn’t go as planned. He didn’t care if he accidentally burned the stew (it was going to be fine). He had a calmness about him. An understanding of life that I strive for.

My Papa was drifting through life without a care in the world and I strive for that.

He was simple. He knew that none of this shit was going to matter in the end. What matters is… when you wake up and you’re forced to face your life for what it is on the simple day to day… can you say that you’re really at peace?

And every day that passes by, I realize how much I’m turning into that man.

Now, do I care about what I look like? Yes lol. But I live in a different world than what my papa did… but can I say I care about what other people think the way I used to? Helllll fucking no. I don’t care. I don’t care if someone thinks I’m too vulgar, I don’t care if someone thinks I drink too much wine, I don’t care if someone thinks my writing is trash, I don’t care what anyone thinks about anything lmao. Fuck YALL. That’s exactly what my Papa would say.

He didn’t give a damn about what anybody thought of him. He did his thing, he did whatever he wanted, and he loved the simple way of life.

And so do I.

The older I get, the more and more I find myself with my nose in a book, drinking my coffee, and shutting the world out without giving a fuck about what anyone else is doing. I just don’t care to keep up with people anymore. I really don’t. What good does it do me to care about what everyone else has going on when I literally have my own life right here, right now that I could be enjoying?

Even if it’s just mundane shit that I’m enjoying everyday. I’m enjoying my PEACE. And I don’t have to always be HAPPY to be at PEACE.

I’m at peace with my decisions (the good and bad ones), at peace with my everyday life — the life I chose to live, at peace with my financial situation, at peace with dying, at peace with who I’ve become.

I may not be happy every day. But I’m at peace with my life. And I just really don’t care what anyone thinks or feels about the way I am or how I'm living.

Ciao! 🖕

— Melvin’s Granddaughter