It was the summer I turned seventeen when Pa passed. He'd wasted away the previous couple years and they finally put him in a home near the end. It was pitiful to see. His biggest fear was losing his mind and he told Ma if she saw that happening to go ahead and end it for him, smother him with a pillow. Of course she couldn't do that; none of us could. But watching his deterioration made me wonder, even at my young age, about my own fate at the end; how that was all going to play out someday.  

On one of our last visits, Pa gave me his pocket watch, one of those gold ones with a chain I'd always admired. I'd watched him for years at church as he'd slip it out of his coat pocket right before the service started, like he was making sure the minister started on time. You could almost feel its heft from a distance. But the day he gave it to me, he held my hand with his own hand shaking, stared at me with watery red eyes, and earnestly made me promise not to over-wind it. 

We visited on Sunday afternoons when they'd clean him up for visitors. They'd set him up in bed, comb his hair and try to give him a decent shave, but there were always little band-aids covering nicks, or else missed spots where stray whiskers had escaped the blade. Even with their best efforts, his once strapping chest was sunken, his eyes and voice hollow, and his big brown arms reduced to skinny white poles. In his prime he was strong as an ox; those hands bigger'n any you'd imagine a man's could be. He could build anything. He'd been chief foreman for a large construction company for over thirty years and directly supervised the construction of schools, hospitals, grand hotels, parks and libraries across the South. He'd built several courthouses including the classic still standing in downtown Nashville. During World War II he supervised construction of almost a hundred Liberty Ships; troop carriers that helped change the course of the war. To keep men in line, he'd sometimes resort to using his fists if the need arose. But at home, he doted over his wife and four daughters and looked over them with the gentleness of a mother hen. 

There was a fine old tree in his backyard where cousins, aunts, uncles, and all manner of family relaxed on sweltering summer days. As small kids we'd stop our running and games to seek refuge. There in the shade of that tree we'd watch with wide eyes and watering mouths as he made homemade ice cream. Our favorite was vanilla; simple vanilla, perfect vanilla, sometimes sweetened with fresh peaches when they were in season. He'd turn the heavy crank of the wooden ice-cream maker effortlessly for what seemed like hours and not break a sweat. Thinking it had to be fun, we'd beg to crank it ourselves. We'd turn the thing for three or four minutes until we were convinced our arms would fall off. He'd smile faintly, urge us to 'crank steady' and push us to the limit. Just as we'd give out he'd let the crank idle, but just for the briefest moment, and only to scare us; then he'd come to the rescue. It being the next thing to sinful if you let the cranking stop.

To this day that ice cream's the best thing I ever tasted.