| Some people only give significance to those things that appear larger than life to them, like televised plane crashes, or 'conflicts', or elections. I agree that these events do tend to stay in our minds for ungodly amounts of time, but I also believe that there are less austere or traumatic occurrences that are just as memorable. What follows is something from my past. It's strength lays not in any effect it has manifested, but in the fact that it is there. I remember when I was a little kid and we moved to Michigan. We first stayed at each of my grandparents' houses before finally settling in South Haven. I can think back to the summer we spent at my dad's parents' house, and I remember the man that was my grandpa. Sometimes it seems like a dream -yet sometimes it feels just like yesterday- being there, with Paca Owen. He was a tall man. Somewhere around six feet two I guess. That's very tall when you're only seven or eight years old and pretty short yourself. He had brown hair and big strong hands and was generally the type of guy you could feel safe around (if you're a little kid and he's your grandpa). We called him Paca because one of my cousins couldn't say grandpa right, and Owen because that was his first name. I didn't really know where he worked, but at the time it didn't matter. Nothing does when you're young. I remember one time when I wanted some candy, and figured he had some. I tiptoed down to the basement of the one level ranch-style house. Creeping past the sliding door that led outside, I entered the short hallway that would lead me to his room. The big bed, pushed up against the far wall with it's foot to the door, was the only feature of the room that matched Paca's size. He was sitting near the foot of the bed and noticed me right away. As he pulled out a funny looking pouch with the words "Red Man" above an Indians face on it, he kind of nodded at me and said "Hi" in a voice that sounded as if he had just waken up. "Is that candy?", I asked him as I saw him put some stringy stuff in his mouth and start chewing on it. "Well, yeah, it's kind of like candy," he replied, as he spit something into this old Folgers coffee can sitting on the floor at his feet. "Do you wanna try a little?" he asked, and he pulled a couple of strings from out of the pouch. "Sure!" taking the "candy" from him I shoved it in my mouth, chewed, and spit it right back out. It tasted like sour apple, rotted prune, and a variety of other sickening flavors. Paca had his can ready for me, already knowing what the result would be. He patted me on the back, laughing as I spit the last of the tobacco out and said, "That's grown up candy. How does it taste?" "I don't like it," I replied with the icky taste still in my mouth. "You eat that?" "No." He looked at me and laughed again. "I just chew on it for a while and then spit in the can. Your grandma doesn't like it either." "Yuck, I know why!" He laughed again as I ran out of the room to go find something to wash the taste out of my mouth. That is one of the biggest single memories I have of my Paca Owen. He passed away a couple of years later, dying in his sleep. I recall not crying at the wake until I saw his face. Even thoughts about him today bring tears welling up inside of me. I remember riding on his knee while he did the theme to the Lone Ranger -getting my tummy tickled by him. Watching him, my dad and brother shooting at melons in the back yard. He even would let me ride on his lawn mower with him while he mowed the lawn. They can be funny -the things that ingrain people in our memories and hearts- but they are there, in my mind and heart, stronger than the Challenger explosion. My time with Paca seems trivial, yet if it meant nothing, I don't think I would remember it so well. I look back on him as being the best friend of my youth, next to Max from Dowagiac. I guess sometimes you don't realize these things until you're older and can reason them out better. Maybe I wish he were here now, so that I could know him‹ have an adult conversation with him. I know that will never happen, but I have memories, and, as we are wont to say, those last forever.
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