Memories of Paul Ray Ashley
December 27, 1926 - January 4, 2015
The last time I saw him he wasn't quite sure who was in his room. But he knew he was supposed to know us so he pretended. I guess he didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings except we all knew that he wasn't quite sure who this group was. So we pretended also. Oh the things we do for loved ones. I helped him drink his water from a straw and he sucked at it greedily, making noises of appreciation. Someone had put golf on the TV and he was pretending to watch but he hates golf so when asked about it he exclaimed it was bullshit. We all snickered.
For at least two years I have been grieving the slow loss of this man that I grew up with, that my children were able to grow up with. He's been declining and it's been hard to watch. Because he knows he's connected to us all somehow he pretends to follow the conversations and know the people. But I know. I watch him. I watch him take in everyone with his eyes and try to pick up clues as to who people are from conversations. When he isn't confident of who someone is they get referred to as 'Lucky', in fact I don't remember the last time he called me by name. The only person he knows is his wife of 67 years, he never forgets her.
Years ago when his own Mama was declining, singing 1920's drunkard tunes and generally amusing everyone with her tunes, I remember holding her hand and realizing she and I had matching hands. Mine were a younger version of hers which meant they were also a younger version of his. When I look at my thumbs I see my Granny and now my Grandpa. I look at him and my Dad, next to one another, and see what I will look like as I grow older and toward the ages they are at.
In my younger years he smoked Camels. On our long summer trips in their motor home, affectionately named the Green Machine, I remember watching him store away all the cartons of Camels he bought for our trip. It never bothered me, the smoke, and to this day if I smell smoke I can usually tell if it is Camel brand and it doesn't bother me as much. Weird right? But he quit smoking when his body told him he had better stop or he wouldn't live long.
They lived on the edge of a ravine, tucked back in a wooded area. It was the best place. I loved that house. Grandpa had a riding lawn mower because there was so much area to cover. My brothers and I thought it was cool. So Grandpa taught us to drive it. We drove up and down their long driveway, collecting the mail for Grandma, and pretending we were grownups. Grandpa would stay in the garage tinkering around keeping an eye on us. His garage was tidy, organized. He had a workbench and I can distinctly remember how it would look lit up at nights he was working in there while we were running around their property playing in the dark. Sometimes when I think of my Grandpa I see him backlit by the light above the workbench, bending over, glasses perched on his nose, smoking a Camel, and tinkering, It's one of my fondest memories.
He had his flaws, as everyone does. He was racist and slightly male chauvinistic. But he was my Grandpa so I could forgive him these ideologies. When I was younger he would let me take sips of coffee and warn me it was going to stunt my growth. When I was older and getting my own coffee he switched from stunted growth tales to telling me it would turn my nipples black. Yes, yes he did. Scandalous! He would give me a knowing nod and wink when he watched my daughters drink some coffee. All I could do was shake my head and grin.
After his Mama passed he and Grandma moved to Colorado where all of us were. We resumed a family tradition of Saturday morning breakfast. I'm incredibly grateful for the years we were able to do that, my girls got to experience some of what I did as I grew up and they got to know their great-grandparents in a way a lot of kids don't. Saturday morning breakfasts were some of the best memories I will carry with me.
When I was little it was their house that was the "holiday home." It's where everyone landed for get togethers during holidays. My parents house became the "holiday home" once Grandpa and Grandma moved to Colorado. My Aunt and her husband would pick them up on their way and all four would arrive together. One Thanksgiving a very large group of us played a family favorite card game and about 2 am it ended. We laughed and laughed. We always played cards and dice when together, it was - it is - our thing. We did it with his Mama back in the day and have never stopped.
He fought in World War II. When the war ended he had to go to one of the concentration camps. I've never heard him utter a word about it, some things you see you just can't talk about. After his time in the service he became an engineer. He rose through the ranks of his company, ending up a VP before he retired. He was an incredibly smart man, his brain was like a machine. His company used Fireballs, the candy, as their trademark or signature. There were bowls of them all over their offices and he would bring home paper bags full of them. I grew up sucking on Fireballs and thinking that was normal, didn't everyone have a never ending supply of Fireballs to enjoy?
He kept busy after retirement. He built a pottery wheel and kiln and learned to throw clay. He tooled leather. He collected coins. He pulled out his art supplies and used them again. He played poker with his buddies once a month and went on trips with his metal detecting club. He probably annoyed Grandma too but I never heard about that. *grin*
When I was younger I remember watching him eat raisin bran with cranberry juice. I couldn't fathom it. Why would he do that? And then I learned that he had no sense of taste or smell due to an illness. Every time he sniffed appreciatively or exclaimed, "this tastes great" he was fooling around. He couldn't smell nor taste a thing!
Growing up my grandparents slept in two twin beds. I didn't understand why they would do that but then I discovered that at night they would push those beds together and separate them again in the morning. That always made my heart a bit warmer. One morning I remember laying in my own fold out bed across the hall from them and I could hear them murmuring and he was rubbing her back as they talked and woke up for the day. I love having that memory of them, really of him in his role as a husband. It was rare to see that side of him since he was my Grandpa.
He whistled all the time. And he would sing bits and pieces of songs at times. One song is at the forefront of my memories. He would whistle it and sing it. "Oh My Darling Clementine" is weaved into all my memories of Grandpa. Except only these words to the song, "Oh my darlin', oh my darlin', oh my darling Clementine..." I never realized any other words existed. Imagine my surprise when I finally figured out there were other words. *grin*
The last time I saw him he would burst into song at random times. I don't know the tunes he was singing then but it wasn't the one I was always used to hearing him whistle. I found myself leaning down to hug him and heard myself humming, "Oh my darlin', oh my darlin', oh my darling Clementine..."
In my younger years he smoked Camels. On our long summer trips in their motor home, affectionately named the Green Machine, I remember watching him store away all the cartons of Camels he bought for our trip. It never bothered me, the smoke, and to this day if I smell smoke I can usually tell if it is Camel brand and it doesn't bother me as much. Weird right? But he quit smoking when his body told him he had better stop or he wouldn't live long.
They lived on the edge of a ravine, tucked back in a wooded area. It was the best place. I loved that house. Grandpa had a riding lawn mower because there was so much area to cover. My brothers and I thought it was cool. So Grandpa taught us to drive it. We drove up and down their long driveway, collecting the mail for Grandma, and pretending we were grownups. Grandpa would stay in the garage tinkering around keeping an eye on us. His garage was tidy, organized. He had a workbench and I can distinctly remember how it would look lit up at nights he was working in there while we were running around their property playing in the dark. Sometimes when I think of my Grandpa I see him backlit by the light above the workbench, bending over, glasses perched on his nose, smoking a Camel, and tinkering, It's one of my fondest memories.
He had his flaws, as everyone does. He was racist and slightly male chauvinistic. But he was my Grandpa so I could forgive him these ideologies. When I was younger he would let me take sips of coffee and warn me it was going to stunt my growth. When I was older and getting my own coffee he switched from stunted growth tales to telling me it would turn my nipples black. Yes, yes he did. Scandalous! He would give me a knowing nod and wink when he watched my daughters drink some coffee. All I could do was shake my head and grin.
After his Mama passed he and Grandma moved to Colorado where all of us were. We resumed a family tradition of Saturday morning breakfast. I'm incredibly grateful for the years we were able to do that, my girls got to experience some of what I did as I grew up and they got to know their great-grandparents in a way a lot of kids don't. Saturday morning breakfasts were some of the best memories I will carry with me.
When I was little it was their house that was the "holiday home." It's where everyone landed for get togethers during holidays. My parents house became the "holiday home" once Grandpa and Grandma moved to Colorado. My Aunt and her husband would pick them up on their way and all four would arrive together. One Thanksgiving a very large group of us played a family favorite card game and about 2 am it ended. We laughed and laughed. We always played cards and dice when together, it was - it is - our thing. We did it with his Mama back in the day and have never stopped.
He fought in World War II. When the war ended he had to go to one of the concentration camps. I've never heard him utter a word about it, some things you see you just can't talk about. After his time in the service he became an engineer. He rose through the ranks of his company, ending up a VP before he retired. He was an incredibly smart man, his brain was like a machine. His company used Fireballs, the candy, as their trademark or signature. There were bowls of them all over their offices and he would bring home paper bags full of them. I grew up sucking on Fireballs and thinking that was normal, didn't everyone have a never ending supply of Fireballs to enjoy?
He kept busy after retirement. He built a pottery wheel and kiln and learned to throw clay. He tooled leather. He collected coins. He pulled out his art supplies and used them again. He played poker with his buddies once a month and went on trips with his metal detecting club. He probably annoyed Grandma too but I never heard about that. *grin*
When I was younger I remember watching him eat raisin bran with cranberry juice. I couldn't fathom it. Why would he do that? And then I learned that he had no sense of taste or smell due to an illness. Every time he sniffed appreciatively or exclaimed, "this tastes great" he was fooling around. He couldn't smell nor taste a thing!
Growing up my grandparents slept in two twin beds. I didn't understand why they would do that but then I discovered that at night they would push those beds together and separate them again in the morning. That always made my heart a bit warmer. One morning I remember laying in my own fold out bed across the hall from them and I could hear them murmuring and he was rubbing her back as they talked and woke up for the day. I love having that memory of them, really of him in his role as a husband. It was rare to see that side of him since he was my Grandpa.
He whistled all the time. And he would sing bits and pieces of songs at times. One song is at the forefront of my memories. He would whistle it and sing it. "Oh My Darling Clementine" is weaved into all my memories of Grandpa. Except only these words to the song, "Oh my darlin', oh my darlin', oh my darling Clementine..." I never realized any other words existed. Imagine my surprise when I finally figured out there were other words. *grin*
The last time I saw him he would burst into song at random times. I don't know the tunes he was singing then but it wasn't the one I was always used to hearing him whistle. I found myself leaning down to hug him and heard myself humming, "Oh my darlin', oh my darlin', oh my darling Clementine..."
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