You’ve gotta know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em

My Papa came up in my post about how I got the name Big Mama because he used to call me Big Mel. He passed away nine years ago and I can still hear the way his voice sounded. It was his greeting for me for my entire life. He sat in his big, black vinyl chair positioned so close to the front door that he could just swivel around and unlock the latch to let you in without even getting up. I’d walk in with my rainbow duffel bag in hand ready to spend the night and he’d say “Big Mel!”

Papa was a character in every sense of the word. He was the son of Italian immigrants who came to the United States in search of a better life and landed in Louisiana, and eventually Beaumont. My dad and stepmom took us to Sicily about 4 years ago and I can’t imagine how depressing it was to find yourself in Beaumont after being somewhere so breathtakingly beautiful.

Papa had about a 6th grade education. He was a wild man in his younger days and actually in his later days too. My dad always tells the story of how Papa would take him to the pool hall while they were supposed to be at Mass. He loved to have a good time.

With his limited education and his street smarts, Papa managed to provide a nice life for his wife and three sons. When he was younger, he ran moonshine back and forth across the Louisiana border but later on he started a drycleaning business. He owned the cleaning business until he retired in 1976. It provided a good living and he was always so proud of the fact that he was able to put all three of his boys through college and buy them all cars.

Every Friday night, he hosted a poker game in his garage. I can remember helping Mema get ready for all of his poker buddies. The garage would be thick with the cigar smoke and I always wondered what went on in there. He played poker with the same group of men for as long as I can remember and the poker games kept going until most of the group passed away.

Saturdays and Sundays were always about sports. This was back in the days before picture in picture was invented, so my uncles would set up two T.V.’s with rabbit ears balancing precariously to get the best picture and a football watching marathon would ensue, along with phone calls to bookies to make their bets. The sound of a football game on T.V. still reminds me of being at Mema and Papa’s house.

They had a huge backyard and Papa set up two swingsets and a tire swing for the grandkids. We spent more hours than I can tell you playing on the swings and playing baseball using the big oak trees for bases. Papa would sit and smoke his cigar and watch us play. Every now and then he’d yell, “You kids, don’t ruin Papa’s barbecue pit”, “You kids, don’t mess up Papa’s garage”, or whatever else we happened to be about to get into at the time.

For most of my life, he drove a huge, old baby blue Fleetwood Caddy. It had an 8 track player that at some point got a Kenny Rogers tape stuck in it, so as you were flying down Avenue A at 12 mph you were always listening to “Ruby, don’t take your love to town…”

Papa loved to tell stories. He would sit and tell stories for hours about different things he’d done and his favorite part would be to lure you into the story. It went like this “Do you remember that time we went on that trip with the Modica boy and his dad? How old were you?” My dad would answer, “I think I was ten” and Papa would say “No, you were 12.” It was like a game show.

Speaking of game shows, they always watched all of them. My love of The Price is Right came from Mema and Papa, and they also got me hooked on General Hospital at a young age. I can’t tell you how many Friday nights we spent watching Dallas at their house. Quality, quality programming. The best part of watching T.V. with them was that Mema and Papa would argue about who different people were and what show they’d last been on. It always ended with Papa saying about my Mema, “You can’t tell her anything.”

As Papa got older, he got a little forgetful. A few weeks before I got married I called to talk to them and see if they thought they’d make it for the wedding. He answered the phone and we talked and he assured me he would be there and wouldn’t miss it for the world. Then he said “Let me let you talk to the cook” and as he handed the phone to Mema I heard her say “who is it?” and he said “Hell, if I know”. Y’all know I can’t make this stuff up.

Papa did make the trip for my wedding and he died a month later. I wish he could see my daughter because I know he’d adore her and say “Big Caroline!” with all the love in the world in his voice.

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