Learning How to Cuss: Remembering My Grandpa, Willie Haug, Sr.

Today is November 1, 2017: All Saint's Day.

I took a little bit of time today to remember my immediate family members who have died: most recently, my Mom's Dad: Roy Grote, My Dad's Mom: Estelle Haug, My Mom's mom: Pauline Grote, and then my Dad's Dad: Willie Haug, Sr.  I put them in that order because it is the order from most recent to least recent in which they entered into their eternal rest.

And as I thought about each of these individuals, I thought about how I had taken time to memorialize them in this blog--all except my dad's dad.  That's because he died when I was still in college in the mid 90's.  I hadn't even heard of a blog then.  I didn't write anything about him then, so I thought that I would today.

I have often said that from one side of my family, I learned how to cuss.  From the other side, I learned how to pray.  Such was the contrast between the two family units that were united by the marriage of my mother and father.  Yet, this is not entirely true.  While it is true that my mother's side of the family was very religious--they were a clergy household and never cussed, it is not true that my father's side of the family was irreligious.  Oh, don't get me wrong, they had that sinner stuff down quite well: my grandpa was a farmer and WWII vet.  He cussed.  He drank.  He smoked.  He was as hard headed as he could possibly be.  But he was also a man with a deep, abiding faith, and his influence on me runs as deeply as my mom's dad.

I spent many hours with my grandpa on the farm.  I did a lot of work around the house, spraying weeds, fixing implements, and the like.  I also spent a lot of time in the fields: chopping cotton, removing weeds from the grain, and riding the tractor when grandpa cultivated the crops.  Notice I said riding the tractor.  Grandpa drove the tractor.  That was his love.  I rarely ever got a chance to drive the tractors, and only for short amounts of time.

But I learned a lot while walking in the fields.  I learned a lot while riding on that tractor.  You see, there weren't any cell phones back then, and the only thing you did was think.  Your mind had time to roam and process things.  Sometimes, I still long for a cotton patch and a cotton hoe--to have time to allow my brain to process all the things it is exposed to today.  I long for that time when as I walked and chopped, the Lord and I would converse and I would hear of His voice.  Grandpa paid me for the work then.  I'd do it for free today.

For I know now what Grandpa was thinking as he sat on the tractor all those long hours.  I know some of what went through his head.  There were things that emerged along the way.  Things that he shared with me.  There was the time when he showed me that God had written His name in the cotton.  There was the time when the extension agent received and unexpected rebuke.  Such things leave an impression on a youth--the impression of a deep, deep faith.

I remember how that faith came forward at church one Sunday.  Grandpa stood up in church that day and announced, "I want to tell everyone that God has worked a miracle in my life.  My kidneys started working again, and I am no longer on dialysis!"  It shocked our pastor something fierce.  Grandpa was invited to go to the front of the church, and we all prayed a prayer of thanksgiving for what had happened to him.

But, the miracle didn't last.  Grandpa had to go back on dialysis a few months later.  Continued smoking and drinking aren't exactly healthy exercises for kidney function...  But no one ever called Grandpa soft headed.

Good Lord, that man was stubborn and hard headed.  He wouldn't back down for anything.  Part of that blood runs in my veins.  It can be a blessing, and it can be a curse.

It was both for my grandfather.

He received a kidney transplant and should have stopped smoking and drinking.

But he didn't.

He developed cancer, and he should have stopped smoking.

But he didn't.

These were things he enjoyed.  He wasn't going to forsake them, and you either accepted him as is, or you avoided him.  There was no middle ground.

A lot of people accepted him.  I remember his funeral procession was very, very long.  I shed many tears during that funeral.  He was the first grandparent that I lost to death.  And on this All Saint's Day, I am thankful for a future where I will see him once again.