Serving the High Plains
Serving the High Plains
This has been a tough year for losses.
In February, my husband Wayne lost his brother, George, to Alzheimer’s. Then, a day before the fifth anniversary of my dad’s passing, Wayne’s dad, George Jeston Head, died, leaving us mired in a pit of grief.
There are so many similarities between our two fathers. Both had very distinct visions of right and wrong. Both served their countries proudly, without question. Both were spiritual men of honor and integrity, who loved their families without hesitation.
Often, Wayne would look at his father, and say to me, “There’s your future right there.” Usually that was said after his father said or did something goofy. I corrected Wayne and told him that was my present.
Before Wayne and I got married, his nieces were concerned with what I would call his dad after the wedding. They asked if I’d call him ‘Dad,’ and I said probably not since I already had a dad. Bethie, who was a teeny, little cherub of a girl, suggested Baaaaad Papa.
Turns out, he’d volunteered at her school and that’s how she introduced him to her classmates. She sort of growled Baaaaad Papa, which made the name even better.
After my dad died, Baaaaad Papa told me that he couldn’t replace my dad, but he would be proud to be my Baaaaad Papa. Those sweet words soothed a bit of my raw heart.
Liz, formerly known as Bethie, is an adult now, and along with her mom Mary and dad Phillip helped take care of Baaaaad Papa until he passed. The night before he died, Mary took a photo of Baaaaad Papa after he’d had dinner; he was sitting in his chair in a blanket. They’d had a lovely visit, and he was settled in for the night. That photo, which meant so much at the time, took on an even greater meaning the next morning.
Mid-March, much of Wayne’s family gathered in Farmington to commemorate his brother Georgie’s memory, and to spend time with the patriarch of their family. The photos are beautiful, as are the memories they made and time they spent with Baaaaad Papa.
The road to get there was fraught with mishaps, everything from the wrong rental car to get family from Nevada to Farmington to an unplanned gps side trip. There was a lot of laughter and tears. Every phone call from Farmington was filled with shrieks and laughter, and a lot of silliness.
Every month without fail, Wayne would send his dad my column from the newspaper. For a while now, I was never sure that he could quite remember who I was as he read it. This time, he’ll remember.
Godspeed my dear Baaaaad Papa. Until we meet again, know that we will remember you, and love you, and love each other.
Patti Dobson writes about faith for The Eastern New Mexico News and Quay County Sun. Contact her at: