Redheaded Jill

Today is two things. It is my youngest brother’s 23 birthday. And it is the one year anniversary of my Grandpa Smith’s passing.

When I think about Grandpa Smith, Popo as we called him, I think about a whistle-like chuckle and a grin. I think about a beige cowboy hat and a grey mustache. (He started shaving his mustache years ago, but in my mind he will always have his stache.) I think about his 1/2 of a thumb turning pages in his Bible. (He had his thumb pulled off at the knuckle by the reins of a horse when he was young.) I think about road trips to Oklahoma, his hunting dogs, trips to Braums, Bible camp, a little red truck, driving Popo and Grandma to Tennessee for the Freed-Hardeman lectureships, state quarters that he loved to collect for us, going to see the play Oklahoma, visiting the Will Roger’s Museum, 5 a.m. walks that he took every day…

Popo was one of the sweetest, gentlest men in the world. I very rarely saw him get upset. If he was upset it was likely over someone misrepresenting the scriptures. He was a gospel preacher for most of his life. I remember once asking him about life in Montana, where my Dad was born. I don’t remember how long he preached there, but soon after Dad was born they moved to Oklahoma.

We used to talk to him and Grandma on the phone once in a while. He was hard of hearing, so he would smile and tell us he loved us but he didn’t hear much of what we said. In his later years, as his memory started to fade he became more direct. I remember talking to him on my birthday 3-4 years ago and he asked, “Regan? Oh! Do you have a boyfriend yet?” And when I said no he told me, “Oh… maybe next time.” It didn’t hurt my feelings, it made me laugh. This sweet old man who was always so polite and pleasant was starting to share his inner thoughts.

One time he was staying in a rehab-nursing home type place and they had a chaplain who would come through and talk with the residents. Popo argued with him over theology to the point where the chaplain quit coming to his room.

Popo was always in pretty good health. About ten years ago he was out riding a bike and flipped over the handle bars. He suffered a hernia, I think. Then one thing led to another and they found cancer in his neck. The tumor completely ate away some of the vertebrae in his neck and he had to wear a neck brace for the rest of his life. I wonder sometimes if they would have ever discovered the cancer if he hadn’t flipped on that bike.

A few years ago my Dad and I went to pick up some cattle in their area. I stayed with Grandma and Popo went with dad. He was so excited! I think he would call and check up on my Dad, making sure the cows were ok.

When Popo’s health took a hard turn he moved in, temporarily, with my aunt and uncle. They took good care of him, but things were stressful. He would wake up confused and try to leave the house in the middle of the night. He would wake up and think it was time to go help the neighbors bring their trashcan to the road. (He was always helping his neighbors.)

I have been to visit Grandma a couple times in the last year. It is comforting to be in their home and see all of Popo’s papers and sermons and books. I have a couple pair of his cowboy boots (because my cousin’s and siblings feet are all too big, lucky for me!) Unfortunately my head is much too big for his cowboy hats.

He was the cutest, sweetest little cowboy in all the land and I miss him. I find comfort in knowing we’ll meet again someday in Heaven. Until then I’ll fondly remember what a kind loving man he was and will forever be thankful that he raised my dad to be just like him, down to the mustache.