The truth about: The greatest man I knew… and his dog.

If you were to ask me today, or literally any day post 2001, I would say that my dad is Dick Jones. That’s not true, he’s actually my papa (grandfather). I’m not going to write about my biological father here, though. Here’s where I write about my papa, and a black Coker Spaniel named Josie.

I remember my biological father having to leave, I was only 9, but I didn’t care. I was excited because my papa was going to be moving in with my family and I. Everyone else was so worried about me and my brothers, but I was perfectly okay. All I wanted was papa.

Papa had moved in to our giant downstairs living space and had the most expensive guitars, synthesizers, keyboards, microphones and other instruments. My brothers and I were never to touch them, and never to go in his room without permission. I didn’t know he was living with us so that we didn’t have to move away due to financial troubles after my biological father was sent to jail. I probably should’ve been more respectful of papa’s privacy, after all he was paying our bills. Still, I was too young to understand that. His presence brought me so much joy, I may not have known why he moved in, but I’ll forever be grateful that he did.

Papa was a large man with a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard. He had little to no hair atop his head, but plenty on dark hair on the sides. Sometimes he’d let me, even ask me, to comb and style his hair. He would ask for scalp massages too! His head was always so sweaty and greasy, but would pay me with candy. I always wanted spearmint flavored anything, and he knew that. He even signed all of my birthday cards as “The Mint Guy”. That was our thing, and no one understood it. No one understood why it was so funny to us, or what it meant. I was his “sweet pea” and to me that meant nothing could break our bond.
Nothing ever did.

I recall him asking me to sing for him, even with him, many times. He recorded my voice for a song he’d written.  Papa was a musician. He always had a harmonica in his infamous shirt pocket (did that man own any other shirts?) and would take it out and make up a song without missing a beat. He’d play it on our front porch most often with my brothers and myself. My neighbors enjoyed it just as much as I did. They would stop and listen sometimes. If he wasn’t playing his harmonica he was singing A Capella or with one of his many guitars. He had a bluesy style to his music, and I loved it. He’d write about heartbreak, being a father, and other songs about his life that I was too young to understand. He helped with what are now famous bands from Seattle and I remember one of his songs was played on a well known radio station. He was so proud of himself to have been able to put his music out there. I remember the first time it played on the radio. It was a hot summer day and he’d been sitting in his old truck in our driveway for hours. He didn’t want to miss his song. As soon as he heard “and now a song from a local musician, Dick Jones from Lake Stevens. This is called ‘My Kid’s Dad’, enjoy!” He rushed me over to his truck where he was anxiously sitting in the driver’s seat, radio blasting. There it was, “My Kid’s Dad” played for all to hear.
Music was his passion, along with cooking.

He could cook up something out of nothing. He even had a famous barbecue sauce that he’d bring to our neighbors. Everyone loved it. Everyone loved him. He was a friendly man, and very humble.
I remember him getting up early almost daily to make breakfast. He didn’t skip out on anything. Eggs, bacon, sausage, ham, pancakes, english muffins, scrambles with spam, you name it. Papa’s cooking skills were phenomenal. He had this saying… “breakfast isn’t breakfast without 3 types of pig!” Gosh, no wonder he was so large.

I remember one summer, after breakfast, my papa had his window wide open and my brothers were playing in the sprinkler we had. I’m glad I didn’t partake in their fun because papa’s equipment got wet. The sprinkler had sprayed right through his open window. I’d never seen him so angry, and that was the only time I ever heard him yell. My brothers were scared out of their minds, but in the end everything was okay and nothing was damaged, although my papa’s trust toward keeping his window open certainly changed.

I don’t have too many memories of him living there, I blocked them out on accident. These are all spotty memories that I’ve worked hard to remember. I won’t ever forget Buster though. He was my dog, and he loved my papa more than anyone. Of course my papa took a liking to him straight away. When papa went out back to sit on our porch swing and smoke his cigarettes Buster would sit at his feet and wait for treats and playtime. He’d mainly throw a ball for Buster to chase. I remember very few times he left the house to take Buster on a walk. As I said, papa was a large man.

I remember when papa moved back in with his ex wife. He loved her, and I don’t think he ever stopped. He had to leave Buster behind, that was a tough time. I hate to say this, but I am still happy that hings din’t work out with his ex wife. I never liked that woman. Her breath always smelled horribly and she didn’t seem to know when to stop talking. So, in 2007 papa and my aunt got an apartment together.

Of course he got a dog. Josie.

Josie was his girl. He groomed her perfectly. Nails trimmed and filed, freshly shampooed and cut fur, gosh, that dog was spoiled. They were inseparable, and he would do anything for her. He went on actual walks with her! It was weird! Papa even let Josie sit in his special chair, usually on his lap, and taste his home cooking. Was I allowed to do that? Oh, no no. That green Lazy-boy recliner was his throne and he customized it with perfectly worn down stains where he sat, and greasy fingerprints on the arm rests. I always thought that was so disgusting, but he loved that damn chair.

I remember the day I found out he had cancer. I was 17.

He had called me on accident and asked for a man… Bob, I think. He didn’t sound right, he seemed very loopy but happy. I told him “papa, it’s Kimmy. This is my number, you called me.” He laughed and apologized, and we spoke for a few minutes. I have no idea how this came up but I still remember his happy tone of voice when he said “well, I’ve got cancer!” He chuckled. Probably the morphine. My face got hot, and I tried not to cry when he said “Oh I’m not leaving…” followed by the sentence I will never forget. not. ever.

“I’m not ready to have my marble knocked off the deck just yet!” He always had odd sayings and phrases that he’s make up on the spot, but I didn’t find that particular one funny at all.

I thought to myself, “This was a weird joke, right? How could he seem so happy and optimistic?”

He was diagnosed with Lymphoma in 2010. He was sick for a while, but I never knew the severity of it. I was mad at my mom for not telling me. She had told my brothers weeks before me. Everyone was so worried about my anxiety and the possibility of me having an episode if I went to see him. My brothers saw him often. So did the rest of my family. I wasn’t really allowed to visit him though. Be it I had the slightest sniffle or cough, or maybe a bad day, there was always a reason I wasn’t allowed to visit him.

Months went on and on. I was so angry at the world.

November 24th, 2010, the night before Thanksgiving, papa was up late preparing the turkey for dinner the next day. Thanksgiving was possibly his favorite holiday. He poured his heart and soul into cooking, and he certainly did for this damn turkey.

I was anxious all night. I was excited to go to his apartment in the morning to finally see him. I had my hair up in little foam rollers that I had bought at the dollar store. Since it was Thanksgiving the next day I was finally going to be able to go to see him at his and my aunt’s place. I had waited so long for this day to come. I missed him so much.

I got up extra early November 25th. I was just barely tugging these awful foam rollers out of my hair. I was glued to my mirror. I had to look perfect and composed, and I was… until my mom opened my door. I didn’t turn to look at her, I had to focus on my hair and makeup. I spoke to her while periodically looking at her reflection in my mirror.

In the most plain tone she told me “papa died.”
I just said “okay.”

You’re fucking kidding. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to see him, and he died today? The day I’m allowed to visit? Really, now? Oh no no no no. NO.

We still went to his and my aunt’s apartment. A lot of my family was there. We ate our Thanksgiving meal like it was any other Thanksgiving. Was I the only one who thought about how he had prepared all of this food hours before he died? The TV was on, the fire was roaring, everyone was making small talk about nothing. Nothing.

I wanted to see Josie, so I walked down the hall to find her jumping at my papa’s bedroom door. She pushed it open. She wanted him to come out. My aunt saw and told her to stop, then proceeded to tell me “Josie knows.” Josie didn’t stop, though. She cried and pushed his door open again. We shut it. This cycle repeated. A man and his dog. magical, huh? Years later she still pushed that door open and waited.

I offered to stay the night. My aunt didn’t want to be alone, and I wanted Josie around me. She was a part of him. I slept in his Lazy Boy recliner, and Josie kept her distance, still checking papa’s bedroom or the front door.

“Sorry, Josie. I’m sad, too. This time is different, sweet girl. He’s not coming home, okay? Not this time.”