Jim Chastain

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Regarding Poppa

I suppose many of you have grandmothers and grandfather who go by nicknames like nana, papaw, mamaw, poppi.

I did. I had Nana and Poppa, a/k/a Nan and Pop.

Poppa was known to the rest of the world, or at least the world that was Tahlequah, Oklahoma, as Bige Hensley. He was my great-grandfather, and he stands out as one of the larger figures in my life. Indeed, he has become something of a mythical figure to me, for I was a teenager when he died and I had never lost anyone that close. I will rely here on only my strongest memories, the most trustworthy ones, for when I step beyond that point things become fuzzy.

Nan and Pop lived on a farm, sort of, in the small community of Tahlequah, which is in Northeastern, Oklahoma, close to Tenkiller Lake. Tahlequah, the city where I was born, is also the Capital of the Cherokee Nation, so many Native Americans live there. Indeed, most of the people in the community have at least some Indian blood, and that included Poppa, who appeared to have quite a bit. (Nan, however, used to claim that he was “black Dutch,” for reasons I can only guess had to do with trying to raise their status in the community.)

I say they lived on a farm, but it was in reality just a huge unimproved tract of land with their house and a rather large garden, where they grew green beans, corn, radishes, squash and peanuts. Poppa did have a tractor though, which he used in the garden and parked in his big garage.

Their land actually connected to what became one of Tahlequahs main thoroughfares. When they bought the land, I don’t think that was the case. But while I was still young Tahlequah began growing their way, and before long they owned some prime real estate.

Poppa was an entrepreneur, if there ever was one. In addition to his rather large and productive garden, he owned a used car lot (Hensley’s Used Autos) and for a time the Tastee Freeze. Other businesses rented land from him, like a beauty shop and some fast food restaurants.

He spent most of his work day down at the used car lot, selling cars. He was known as an honest man in a business not known for setting the ethical bar high. But I remember walking down from their house on a little dirt road, stopping for something cold at the Tastee Freeze, then heading over to his car lot. I watched him do his business, and it was very clear that people respected and trusted him. There was a lot of bartering involved, as it was a poor town. But the business could not have survived as long as it did without having a reputable name behind it.   

Poppa was darkly complected, so much so that he looked like he spent most of his time in the tropics. He was a man of few words, but when he did speak he was either making a wry joke or some dead-on observation. He didn’t have a whole lot of hair, but he had the cutest smile. And he dearly loved his wife. They had moved here from the east, Kentucky perhaps, and I don’t think she ever embraced Oklahoma as much as he did. From time to time, they’d load up the camper and take off on vacation, heading somewhere back to their roots.

Poppa also loved to play cards. When we’d go to visit, which was quite often, we would always play pitch, or spades, or hearts. During a pitch game, he’d partner with Nan, and they would eventually start talking across the table. “Well, these are some awful cards, so now would be a good time to bid, if you can,” he’d say. This is a total no-no in pitch, but you could never cure him of it. It didn’t matter anyway. He was such a risk-taker in the game that he’d overbid his hand. Then they would start griping at each other, and he’d shoot the moon. We would laugh and laugh.

He was also a fisherman. A regular. He would shut down the car lot and head to that quiet spot he loved. I’m not exactly sure where it was. But he did take me there once, when I was ten or eleven. He had never asked me to go before, so it was something like a ceremonial blessing when he did. I had no choice but to say yes, even though I never cared for fishing. But in reality I wanted to go just to hang out with him.

The trip turned out to be memorable, but for all the wrong reasons. We hadn’t been out there long when we heard a scream. Another fisherman across the river rushed out of the trees. He’d been back there digging for worms and had stumbled upon a bee’s nest. The bees were swarming him as he rushed to the water. There seemed to be a black cloud around him. He jumped in the water and the bees flew off, some toward us. Seconds later, Poppa and some other fishermen were helping him out of the water. He’d been stung many times and his face was swelling. He said something about being alergic. Somebody rushed him to his car and they drove away. We were never for sure what had happened to the man, except that Poppa had heard that he wasn’t supposed to make it.

Every Christmas, our entire family gathered at Nan and Pop’s home. The couple had three children, Bob, Faye, and Ruth. (Ruth is my grandmother.) Those three children gave them eleven grandchildren, my mom being the first. And those eleven children gave them more great-children than I can add off the top of my head, but my sisters and me were four of them.

So that was a lot of people in one little white house, perhaps 1500 square feet, not counting the dark and scary basement that I never saw anybody but Nan go down into. But gather we did each and every Christmas of my childhood. Lunch was pot luck of course and began at noon. Presents were opened at 2:00 or 3:00.

Pop played Santa Claus. He’d sit on the floor and sift through present after present, sending them off to grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Due to the sheer size of this clan, each individual family drew a few names, so that all of the kids received a present or two. Nan and Pop received many presents though, from all their kids and from many grandchildren.

Pop liked me. Perhaps it was because I was one of the oldest great-grandchildren, in fact older than some of his grandchildren. Or maybe he just made me feel that way. We all want to believe that we’re special to someone else, but he did take me aside often, call me silly nicknames, ask me to accompany him places.

On one of those occasions, he asked me to go on a walk with him. I was fifteen or sixteen at the time. Curious, because I didn’t know him as a walker, I agreed. We walked up the street toward his daughter Faye’s house, then turned right and wound through some neighborhoods. Poppa revealed to me then his plan. To buy some land up this way and build a new house for Nan.

“Why do you need a new house?” I said, unable to imagine them living anywhere but the same house they had lived in my entire life.

“Well, Nan doesn’t drive much, so I thought I’d get her a house up here by the church, so she could walk to church whenever she wanted.”

“What about you? You can drive her.” I said. 

“I’m not going to be around forever.” 

Those words stayed with me for some reason. It was perhaps the first time I realized that this man I loved so much would not be with me forever. Still, I thought he was just saying that. I mean, it’s the type of thing you say when you get older.

A few months later, we received a call at our home in Bartlesville. Poppa had fallen and they thought he might have suffered a stroke. He was in the hospital and further tests were being done. Mom left immediately. We were left behind because of school. 

The news was bad. Not a stroke, but a brain tumor. An operation was scheduled to attempt to remove it, reduce the pressure, and determine if the tumor was malignant. It was, of course. The doctors were only able to remove part of it, and the tumor would definitely grow back.

We were all shocked, for Poppa was the patriarch of our family. And he was such a good, hard-working guy too.

The next six months were a blur. Mom was traveling back and forth to Tahlequah, trying to help out Nan, Grandma, Faye, and Bob. Sometimes she took us, sometimes she didn’t.

Poppa didn’t seem that different at first. His head was shaved, and he had a bandage over part of his head. But he wore a little hat, so you couldn’t tell. He sat over on a chair, cracking jokes, telling stories. It was reassuring to see him this way.

Later, he began to change. He lost weight. His concentration wasn’t nearly as good. He seemed less jovial than before.

And then, it finally happened, our last moments together. We drove down to Tahlequah as a family, still hoping for a miracle, but knowing that was probably not going to be the end-result. When we got there, Poppa was just a ghost of what he had been. He’d forgotten names (or entire lives) of many people who were close to him, Nan told us.

“Don’t be surprised if he doesn’t know you,” she said.  

He was out of it, most of the time. Moving around, groaning, trying to find a comfortable position. I couldn’t bear to watch. When he did awaken, he didn’t seem to know any of us. 

As it came time to leave, my Dad and sisters exited and went out to the car. I stayed behind with Mom, both of us needing a little more time. Poppa looked up at her and held out his hand.

“Sherry,” he said, then started sobbing. “Don’t go. Don’t go.”

My eyes filled with tears. He had remembered Mom and was begging her not to leave. But she had to. Dad had to go to work. We had to go to school. Mom had a family to take care of.

Poppa then turned to me and offered his hand.

“Jimbo,” he said, tears streaking from his eyes. ”Jimbo.”

I offered my hand back to him. He grabbed it and squeezed, as though he was transferring all of his love and power and wisdom to me. 

It was my saddest one-on-one moment with another human being.

I walked outside with Mom. Both of us were crying. And I continued crying for the remaining two-hour drive home.

Poppa died a couple of weeks later. Mom was there, helping take care of him near the end.

These are my memories, from thirty years or more back. Yes, it was a long time ago, but as far as childhood memories go, these are some of my strongest, most vivid ones.

Passage

In a funny way
he was a Renaissance man
for his day, his time.

Not one to lord it over Grandma,
his not so submissive wife,
he was quietly strong.

He was strangely devout
for one who dealt in land and cars.
Honest, he would never cheat you.

Except at cards, you know,
talking across the table that way.
But oh how we laughed.

He had a wondrous garden
and a dark, oily-smelling garage
and a tree swing-I see them now.

He was, perhaps, my biggest fan.
Something about his playful eyes
and mischievous smile gave him away.

He took me on a summer’s walk once,
revealed secret plans and dreams.
That was his nature, looking forward.

We lost him a few months later though.
Cancer ate away his mind, stole his dignity.
But only briefly, memories remain.

He took my hand and squeezed it,
knowing this would be a cruel goodbye.
His tears, how they pierced me through.

I turned and walked away,
leaving that tree swing of my childhood
still swaying in the autumn breeze.

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