He was a sharecropper's son. "We were so poor that the poor people called us poor," he would tell me years later. Everyone called him D.P. Carter, but I called my grandfather Paw Paw Carter. If you were to ask him what D.P. stood for, his eyes would light up with the mischief as he answered, "Darn Precious." Then came the laugh. I don't believe I've ever seen any human being laugh so much, so often, and with such marvelous abandon. He loved to regale us all with funny stories, but to tell the truth, I don't know how half of them ever ended. He would start laughing long before reaching the punchline, and his laughter would only increase until he was soon reduced to tears, unable to complete the joke -- and nobody cared because we were all laughing hysterically with him. Never have I enjoyed the beginning of so many stories.
His smile and laugh didn't come cheap, however. The youngest surviving of 12 children, he learned both the value and hardship of physical labor as a child. He once wrote of the house where his family lived:
It was a big old house, with a chimney at each end of the house, the kitchen was separated from the house with a little walkway connecting the two together. There were cracks in the floor, and you could see the ground underneath, so [we] just swept the trash through the cracks. The house was three or four feet above the ground. There were cracks in the wall, and there were no glass windows. The windows had wooden shutters and when you opened them, there was the wide open space outside.
Even though his was a hard lot in life, the mischief (which appears to have been hereditary) was never far away. Once, when his father was taking a rare and well-deserved nap in the hammock outside, young D.P. tickled his nose with a feather, though not before putting a generous quantity of chicken droppings on the man's fingers. "He rubbed that stuff all over his face," Paw Paw said, while laughing of course. Then, with that characteristic twinkle, he added, "I got my ass beat, but it was worth it."
Then there was the time that, as Paw Paw described it, "My older brother, Robert. went courtin'." You see, Robert already had his "courtin' suit," laid out and ready, as he was preparing to go call on a young lady and meet her family that evening. Well, there was the suit laying across the bed, complete with a handkerchief in the breast pocket. And there was little D.P. with his eye full of mischief. He removed the handkerchief and went to the kitchen, where his mother had some leftover corn bread sitting out. Taking a chunk of it and placing it in the middle of the handkerchief, he gathered up the corners and beat the cornbread into little pieces before carefully re-folding the handkerchief and placing it back in the breast pocket of the suit.
It worked. That night, Robert was busy visiting with the object of his affection and her family when he had to sneeze. At the last second, he yanked the handkerchief out of his pocket, and a blast of cornbread showered everything and everyone in the room. "Did Robert come after you?" I would ask in July of 2009. "Oh he tried," Paw Paw said. Then with a grin he added, "I outran him."
That was one of out lasts visits, as his prostate cancer was catching up with him. He was 93, though he always told people he was 27. We were sitting in his living room when he asked for his Bible, in which he had written the names of his siblings and parents, and had kept a record of sorts. He asked if I had time to listen to him talk about his family. I said of course, and added that I wanted to pass this information along to my children. "Oh please do," he said. Opening that worn and beautiful old book, he read the names, passed along photos, and we took a walk through history together. Only eight of his parents' 12 children survived. By 2009, Paw Paw was the only one living.
As a young man, he took a job as a truck driver, delivering Jax beer out of New Orleans. My grandmother worked at a little diner in Church Point, Louisiana, just up the road from my favorite little town of Rayne. Jane had enough Acadian (Cajun) blood in her to do a normal person in completely, and Paw Paw described her as, "the cutest little coonass (Cajun) I'd ever seen." Jane's father was a minister, and wasn't especially fond of his daughter getting involved with a mischievous beer truck driver. But the courtship evolved and they eventually married (at which point Paw Paw tries to finish the story of them leaving the church in his delivery truck with all the beer bottles in the back, but he starts laughing again).
He was growing tired by this point in our visit, and so the hospice nurse assisted in getting him to bed, where he went to sleep as soon as he hit the pillow. "He's a special man," she said. Reaching down toward the floor, I said, "From the time that I was this high, I always looked forward to visiting with Paw Paw Carter. I knew there would be jokes, smiles, and laughter." She allowed as how even during his difficult days, when he was in pain, he made her laugh. I was gratified, though not surprised. It seems to be a family trait.
The next time I saw him, he was in a nursing home and the prognosis was, as doctors euphemistically term it, "grave." He was wearing the World War II Veteran cap I had purchased for him from the D-Day Museum in New Orleans. He loved that hat. When the ambulance came to take him to the Emergency Room, he refused to leave without it. On that visit, which would be our last, he talked about his military service.
He served in the Pacific Theater and was onboard a ship en route to Japan when the war ended, transforming a planned invasion force to an Army of occupation. I had seen the photos, some from battle fields, others from after hostilities ceased. I won't recount the stories in this space, but will say for the record that I understand why he hadn't talked about the war much over the years.
Soon, before the conversation became excessively morbid, he returned to stories of happier days. Like the time he and my Uncle Lester had a wee too much to drink at a high school football game and took to the field to march with the band, for instance. Or the time they faked press credentials and got to watch a great deal of another game from the press box. Or the time he and Jane (Grandma), along with Uncle Lester and Aunt Lou, had gone to Beaumont, Texas to go "honky tonkin'," only to return home to Grandma's very stern and teetotaling sister Edna. "I tried to act sober, but Lester was passed out," he said. "Edna was standing their watching, I opened the car door and Lester just rolled out onto the ground," he said before the laughter took over again. "And you caught hell?" I asked. "Oh you got that right, boy," he laughed.
Our families lend us a variety of traits from all corners. My grandfather had such a smooth grace and easygoing sense of humor, something he passed along to my Dad and, at least in some measure hopefully, to me. In any event, I know where my mischief originated. Paw Paw knew the value of humor because he knew what a hard life meant, and how it could be tempered. He was a good father to his children, his example lighting the way for my own father and for me, though, thankfully, at least my Dad never got me in trouble with the teacher by convincing me that if you leave the hair from a horse's tail in a bucket of rain water for two weeks it will turn into a snake. For me, Father's Day is about celebrating not only my own dad and his example, but the strength, character, and yes, humor, of generations of good men in our family, of which D.P. Carter was but one example.
It was time for supper at the nursing home, and he didn't want to be late. I last saw him on his little electric scooter, wearing his WWII hat, motoring toward the dining room. I don't know what the policy is in Heaven regarding contraband, but I made sure that hat was in his casket. I'm sure Paw Paw came up with a good story. Of course, whether he could finish it through the laughter is another matter entirely.