I was fortunate enough to grow up as part of a big family (and by big I mean I have 18 aunts and uncles). On my Dad’s side, I had one very special relative, my Papa B (also known as junior). My Papa B was a great man. When my parents bought their second, and what would be my first home, the back yard was a complete mud pit. At 76 years old my Papa B came out and laid almost an acre of sod on their property. He had his fair share of quirks, for instance, he loved turtle soup, raised a badger, went on a tour of Europe selling seed corn, tagged and researched turtles for Kansas State University…he loved K-state so much that he shaved the letters KSU on his favorite cow…but, the oddest of all, he never told anyone he loved them…until I came along.
Maurice Franklin Black Jr. was born on March 31st, 1922 in Douglas County Nebraska. He never really told my grandma or my dad much about his upbringing him being such a private person and all. The few stories we do know about my papa during his childhood a very seldom and lack much detail. He did tell them what it was like to struggle through. He grew up with 14 siblings, all within about an 18 year age span. His mother didn’t work, because that’s how society was at the time and his father was a dairy farmer. He went to a one-room school house all of his life and was given breaks during every harvest season to help his father on the farm. His family rarely had enough food and always wore homemade clothes. Since he was on the younger side he never wore anything that wasn’t a hand-me-down. He was forced to drop out of high school when world war II began to take care of the family’s farm due to all of his brothers going off to war. He was offered at scholarship to be a pitcher at Kansas state university but declined to once again take care of the farm. He had to then petition the government to buy a new tractor during the war because metal was reserved solely for the military. All his efforts for the farm payed off though because at 18 years old he was named Kansas Star Farmer. (Btw no one know when his family moved to Kansas but it happened at some point.)
In 1945 Maurice (Aka Papa B) would marry Violet (Aka great-grandma Black). A young schoolteacher he had met a few years prior. One year later they would have their first child, my aunt Becky, and two years after that have their second child, my grandma Jane. His family was modeled very much after his own upbringing, with the family motto being “All work no play”. He and my great grandmother worked their butts off as farmers to provide for their children. With my papa being well pretty kick-ass at his job he was able to afford quite a few luxuries for his home. (If ya didn’t know already that means his family could poop indoors instead of using an outhouse.) He never expressed his love for his daughters but throughly enjoyed spending quality time with them. Before they would go to sleep at night he would show them the newest farm magazines and have them pick out the prettiest equipment and cows. He would often take them rabbit hunting, which no one was good at but, even if he never said it he loved the time he spent with his girls.
Before he knew it his little girls grew up and had their own little munchkins and then those little munchkins grew up and had my cousins Ben, Zach, and me of course. My dad never really talks about how he was as a grandfather granted he had a lot of other stuff going on. Occasionally he and my aunt will talk about trying his turtle soup, which no is not made from turtle meat. It is just soup eaten out of a turtle shell bowl, which my papa was very fond of making. We do know that he started two of our most beloved family traditions. One, having Christmas on Christmas eve and two having a huge baking day and decorating cookies.
According to literally everyone, once I popped out my papa was like “That, that is my person, that is my best friend”. No one in my family had ever seen him be so outwardly loving to someone. He was my biggest supporter and my best friend. His favorite thing do was to teach me everything he knew about life, especially farming. He and my great-grandma would babysit me all the time. He would let me play their organ which I’m positive sounded atrocious but he just laughed while I made up little songs. He and I would make up all kinds of stories about different farm animals. I loved to make up stories about a certain horse named Mator. So, of course, the next Christmas he bought me a Radio Flyer horse, which my parents were like heck no to so it had to stay at papa’s house.
When I was 4 and my papa was 87 he had to move into an assisted living center. Of course, I didn’t understand what was happening at the time my papa just told me that “He wanted help and to live around more people his age.” I thought his room looked boring so every time I visited him I’d either bring him something I’’d colored or drawn. I don’t remember much about him but I do remember his smile when I’d sit on his lap and tell him all about the drawing I brought him. Both he and my grandma struggled with remembering things once they got into their late 80’s but they always remembered me. Even when I was four I knew there was a special connection between them and me. When my papa was 89 years old he died of natural causes in his sleep.
Now I know I’m going to sound crazy but over the course of 2020, my papa started appearing in my dreams. Most of the time he’d just be watching me perform from his rocker. More and more recently though we’ve started having conversations. The most memorable happened a few months ago. I told him I was sorry I didn’t remember him and he told me, “You remember me, you just don’t know it yet”. He also told me how proud he was of me and how he’d always be with me. Now get ready for me to sound crazier I’ve always had my doubts about god, so I never really prayed. I’d say things along the lines of “Hey if anybody’s listening”, then my grandpa visited me in my dream. Here’s the koo-koo part I started talking to him. Updating him on the modern world, what’s happened in my life recently, how I wish he could see the world today. Sometimes he’ll answer my question so to speak and sometimes we just sit there in peaceful silence. To me this all confirms what I thought as a little four year old, something special bonded me to my papa b.
So the moral of this story is, for one listen to little kids (the insane things they say may be right) and two the people you lose no matter how well you remember them they will always be with you. Somehow, someway, they will let you know they’re there.
P.S. papa b if you’re seeing this I love you so much and am unimaginably proud to be your great-granddaughter.
