paul blackmon

This is probably my most personal blog post. Or rather, it is the most revealing, as everything else has been at least partially fiction.

A few years ago my mother went through a phase of writing down the family stories. She wrote down everything she could remember about her childhood and her family’s stories. I was very interesting, and we all tried to convince her to write more and publish. But she decided she was finished and hasn’t written anything since. This is not her story.

This is his story.

My grandfather, Paul Blackmon, grew up during the Great Depression on a small, run down farm in Mississippi. He was a Nazarene preacher, and not always a very nice man, but only in front of the people he loved. I hated him a little, and loved him a lot. Now I only love him a lot, and hardly remember anything else. He died four years ago.

Granddaddy was famous for his tall tales. You never knew what was real and what was fiction. The movie, Big Fish, reminds me of him. It makes me sad.

Everyone’s favorite story was the cat. You don’t have to say any more than “the cat story” at a family gathering and everyone is telling the story all at once and laughing. It was never quite the same, but it was always good. My cousin had the good sense to bring a video camera to a family gathering not long before Granddaddy died and filmed him telling the story. Here is my favorite version of the story (in my own words since I can’t quite remember his):

I grew up on a farm. And as we all know farms have cats. [He would look at me at this point and say] not sweet house cats, Papoose. [He had little nicknames for us all. Mine was Papoose because my parents carried me in a papoose-like contraption on their backs when I was a baby.] There was this one cat that was really mean [sometimes he would say sick, but I think it makes more sense as mean]. One day my daddy told me and Max to take it out in the woods and kill it. We took it out into the woods and found a log. We laid it over the log and hit it in the head with a rock, killing it. We went back to the house.

Well we all know that a cat has nine lives. A few hours later the cat comes walking up to the house. So the next day Max and I took it back out to the woods and killed it all over again. What do you know, but a few hours later that cat came back.

We did this six or seven more time until we had to end it. So we took that cat back in the woods. We laid it on that log and cut its head off. The head fell on one side and the body fell on the other side of the log. We came back to the house and several hours later the cat didn’t come back. But three or four days later that cat came walking up with its head in its mouth.

It’s gruesome, but I love it. We always sat on the edges of our seats and waited for that last bit like it was candy. No wonder I’m so strange.

Here is the video of the story:

Sometimes the story would be quick and other times the story would be in great detail. My version was quick, but I always preferred the detail.

Another story he told was probably true, but you could never tell:

When he was a kid, they never had any money. One year for Christmas their father saved up enough money to give each kid a dime. My grandfather and one of his brothers walked into town and bought a box of Cracker Jacks each for five cents. After they ate their first boxes they wanted more so they used the rest of their money to buy two more boxes. The prize in my grandfather’s second box was a little book that you scratched off the pages with a penny to make the story show up. But they had spent every last cent on those Cracker Jacks, and no one at home had any money. They went door to door asking people for a penny. Finally an old lady let them borrow a penny, but she made them sit on her front porch to scratch off the book so they could return the penny immediately.

My cousin had the foresight to video that story too:

When he graduated from high school my grandfather knew he wanted to be a Nazarene preacher and went to Trevecca Nazarene College in Nashville, Tennessee. He was working through school as campus maintenance when one day he was sent to work on the furnace in the girls’ dormitory. When he walked in the room, he immediately made fun of the girl who lived there because he couldn’t understand her Yankee accent. As revenge, she cut the buttons off his coat. He demanded that she go out on a date with him and sew his buttons back on. She went on that date but never did sew on those buttons. About a year later they were married on his family’s farm in Mississipi.

I know that story is true—my grandmother doesn’t lie.

My grandparents moved around Mississippi and Alabama, from parsonage to parsonage, throughout my mother’s and aunt’s childhood. While my mother was in college they were moved to Houston, Texas. My mother and aunt followed them soon after because jobs were abundant in Houston. My grandparents retired here.

He loved his grandkids. Even though sometimes he drove us crazy. One time when my parents were selling the house, they were having an open house and were going to look at other houses during the time. I had the worst headache ever, and didn’t know what to do. I went to my grandparents’ house to sleep. My grandfather was learning about email and was a wretched speller. My grandfather was in the back room. My grandmother was in the kitchen. I was between them, in the middle bedroom with the door open.

My grandfather yelled, “How do you spell arthritis?”

“What?” my grandmother yelled back.

“HOW DO YOU SPELL ARTHRITIS?”

“A-R-T-H-R-I-T-I-S.”

“WHAT?”

“A-R-T-H-R-I-T-I-S.”

I wanted to slam the door but couldn’t because I didn’t want to be rude. But I did learn how to spell arthritis.

I told my grandmother about that recently, and she laughed and said, “You should have closed the door.” She doesn’t mince words.

My grandfather died shortly after he turned 80 but not without having a great impact on us all. At his service, my cousin gave the eulogy. Brandon reminded us all what a fascinating man Granddaddy was. I didn’t cry until Brandon listed the grandkids and our nicknames. I could not stop sobbing.

Last summer I was taking a Multicultural Education class in which I had to write a paper about my cultural history and the implications. I was supposed to identify an immigrating ancestor. The task was nearly impossible. My grandmother told me that Granddaddy used to always say that there were three Blackmon brothers that emigrated from Scotland. One settled in Texas. One settled in Mississippi. And one settled in North Carolina. I wrote about it in my paper, but I don’t really believe it. It sounds like the beginning of a Russian fairytale, doesn’t it? But isn’t that a great way to end a story about the man who, I believe, inspired Big Fish?