James Porter, Pa

James Porter had a long full life, but he has died today. He had a long full life before I was ever born, before I knew him, but he was my grandfather, and this is my journal. I will speak, then, of my grandfather, as I knew him, because I love him.

James Porter was known as Jimmy to his mother, Jim to his friends and Pa to his children, their children and his great grandchildren. He was born in Michigan, as most Porters in my family from generations prior to mine have been. A farm was his childhood home, and like his parents and siblings, he tended that farm for minimal compensation. As he grew, so too did his responsibilities. Pa was gifted with animals, and particularly excelled in caring for and working horses. As a young man he was able to ride astride two horses, standing up, one foot on either’s back. As an older man, he was still able to take control of a team pulling a cart and guide them backward into a designated stall, though they were not his horses and not familiar with him. He was a man to be trusted.

Exceptionally bright, tough and talented, Pa skip grades in school like the rest of us skipped assignments or classes. He graduated high school at the age of fifteen. He worked for the CCC on improving the campsites at Bob Lake in the UP of Michigan. He boxed. He went to war, fighting in WWII in the Navy. He married a beautiful young woman, Betty Jane, whom he courted in Hollywood fashion. Once she knew the quality of the man, there was nary a question. Their marriage is measured in decades, the successes of their children and grandchildren, and unlike over half of unions today, theirs was truly till death did them part.

He worked, hard and smart, and provided for his family. Pa raised seven children with Gramma Betty: Barbara, David (my father), Gail, Catherine and Marilyn, Diane, and Steve. He saw his daughters and sons grow, gain educations (some eagerly, some against their wills—my father), start careers, marry and raise children of their own. He retired, golfed with his wife, traveled, cared for his grandkids, and watched some of them marry and raise children, whom he again cared for. The girls have always been his favorites, especially fiery, independent gals. You’ve never seen a bulb burn so bright as Pa did when beholding one of his bold young daughters, grand daughters or great grand daughters.

Pa was frugal, because he grew up through the depression. He was resourceful, because he and his brothers all learned the importance of adapting, innovating and overcoming in order to survive. He was stubborn, because he was so damn smart. He was funny, because of his tremendous wit. He was filled with joy, because he lived life for his family and watched them thrive. He is loved, because he was such a great man and loved others with such fidelity and amazing depth.

My grandfather delighted in good beer, a fine wine, the high-end Japanese scotches my cousin Josh brought him, bourbon and Squirt soda. Golf and football were his favorite sports to watch on television; he even put up with these new obnoxious televisions, cable boxes and innumerable remotes for the games and matches. His favorite sports to watch live were whichever his grandkids were playing in, be they basketball, football, or lacrosse. Pa loved bullshitting, spinning a yarn for a willing ear, making anyone smile unguardedly. Those few times my brother or I brought a significant other to family gatherings, Pa inevitably pulled her aside, held her hands tightly, told her hilarious lies and made the kind of first impression we could only dream of. The men that accompanied our female cousins left equally impressed by a man all hope to emulate.

I felt deeply cared for by Pa and Gramma while I was a child. Always found Christmas gifts from them under tree and received birthday presents two days later. I was once deeply wounded when, in my early teenage years, I overheard him tell my uncle that he had so many grandkids, he didn’t mind if he lost one—I’d been running around like a kid (aka idiot). I was later deeply touched when he and my gramma attended my high school lacrosse games, my college graduation. I was immensely gratified to know he was thrilled by a visit I made to them after I graduated from college, and again to know they followed this blog while I was in the Peace Corps.

During my time in Micronesia, one of my greatest fears was I wouldn’t see my grandparents again before returning home. Blessed as ever, I returned to find them in fine health. Pa and Gramma came to my welcome home get together this past August. Two days later they came back to Boise for a dinner with my folks, aunt Diane, cousin Monica and I. We ate, drank, bullshitted, laughed and had the kind an evening I’ll treasure the rest of my life.

After Thanksgiving this year, Pa’s health took a turn for the worse. He slowed down, grew tired. Over the month leading up to Christmas, my dad’s concern built and built. He, my aunts and uncles rallied around Pa and Gramma, did what they could. Medications, doctors’ appointments, home care, and a trip to the hospital. Pa never made it back home to Payette, will never hug his children again, kiss his wife, sip a beer or spin a yarn. I’ll never see that shit-eating grin, hear that gruff laugh or shake that powerful hand again. Our lives were granted and made fuller for his having lived and are now bereft by his absence. I am grateful to have been with my brother today, sorrowful for being away from Boise and unable to be at Pa’s bedside. What a wonderful man, and what a horrible day.

I love you, Pa. Rest in the blessed peace deserved of a man who lived so admirably.