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Description
For most of us Hoosiers, Memorial Day is about one thing and one thing only: the big race. That and… making the lives of us retail workers a living hell in the lead up to that race. Every May, millions of people rev up for the Indy 500, ready and set to drink, barbecue, and get as rowdy as the law will allow… and… usually beyond. For me, though, Memorial Day is a time to quietly remember and honor my grandfather, Jim, affectionately known as Pa Paw to me and my brother. I don't have as many memories of my grandfather as I would like, but all the ones I do have are good, and I'm grateful for that. Was he a perfect man? No. I've heard him use some… frankly appalling words to describe the Vietnamese people, and I highly doubt he would've approved of my “progressive lifestyle”. He was very much a product of his time, and as such I had a very difficult time explaining to him that my anxiety disorder was a disorder, not that I'm “just anxious” about my problems. Still, he saw I was struggling and in a lot of pain, and he genuinely tried to help as best he understood the situation. He had my back when I asked, and that's enough for me to remember him fondly. He made me laugh and he shared his stories, so today I'd like to share some of those stories with you. He always got a kick out of my art stuff, and was a big history buff like me, so I can't think of a much better way to honor him. Fair warning, this one's not going to be very funny. There was a lot of not fun stuff in my grandfather's life, and writing this was pretty difficult to get through. I choose to remember him as he was, though, good and bad, so I won't skimp out on the details.

James Edward Spainhower III (he could've been James V but there's an awkward Bert interrupting the streak a few generations up the line) was born on October 16, 1947 in Troy, New York, the son of WW2 veterans Jim Junior Spainhower and Betty Fogarty. He was born just a few minutes before his twin brother Bill, a factoid which Jim would lord over Bill's head for their entire lives. They didn't hate one another, far from it, they were just brothers, and you know how that goes. Both of them have told me the story of how one time they were dicking around in the backyard, Bill did something to piss Jim off, and Jim got so frustrated that he picked up a hammer and chucked it into the back of Bill's head like a fucking tomahawk. Bill's side of the story obviously blacks out there, but Jim says his stomach dropped when Bill just kinda deactivated into the ground. Jim booked it the fuck out of town for a while because if he'd just killed his brother, his rancid old man was going to beat the shit out of him. Miraculously, Bill survived this hammering pretty much unscathed, because redneck kids seemingly have the healing powers of Wolverine. In their adult years, this terrifying incident became a big laugh to recall.

Jim didn't have much time to develop memories of New York. His family packed up and moved to his father's home state of Indiana in 1948. I'm not entirely sure why, because their father had run away from home and joined the army just to escape the abuse in the first place. I never really thought to ask when I was younger, and no one alive today seems to know. Apparently my great grandfather was a bit averse to talking about his past. I guess to be fair, Pa Paw didn't talk much about this time period either. The only story I think I ever heard him mention about his grandfather was vague recollections of fishing at his property on Donnell Lake up in Michigan. Whatever the reason, Mishawaka, Indiana would be his home for the majority of his life. It's here that he grew into what can only be described as a “punk ass teenager”, complete with motorcycle, leather jacket, greased hair, and all those other things which the 60s couldn't handle. This drip and swagger got Jim hitched to a rich blonde bombshell from California, and that's a very strange mental image which I still kinda struggle to reconcile with because to me that girl is who became my Grandma Donna. Obviously for Jim, this was awesome. He was charming, he was free, and he had a hot babe on his hip. The man was going into his adult years living his best life.

Then, he got the letter.

On December 8, 1966, at the age of just nineteen, Jim pulled a call from Uncle Sam out of his mailbox. The way he told it, he stood there in the snow for God knows how long, shaking as the words on his draft notice sank in. President Johnson was dragging him into his war on the other side of the world, a war where men died drowned in mud, hung from trees, suffocating on gasoline, or incinerated with napalm. Jim, knowing his life was over, ran out into the street, fell to his knees, clutched the letter in his fist, and screamed into the sky an echoing “fuck you” to Johnson, God Himself, or whoever else he knew wasn't listening anyway. His curse fell on deaf ears, and he was shipped off for drilling. I don't recall any specific stories told about his first experiences here in the armed forces, but I do have this little anecdote: my dad is a simple man, and he finds the scene in the 1987 film Full Metal Jacket where the sergeant just completely lays into his recruits absolutely hilarious. My dad told me when he was a lot younger and he was watching the movie with my grandfather as dumb kid, he innocently asked my grandfather why he wasn't laughing too. My grandfather had been sitting there on the couch, stiff, totally silent, and upright, and his only answer to his cackling son was, “you don't laugh”.

After being crushed and broken into a soldier for six months, the time came to muster out. Private Jim Spainhower left his country behind for Vietnam in June 1967. He was assigned as a heavy truck driver in the 91st Engineer Company, and eventually worked his way up to the rank of Technical Specialist 4th Class on November 16. The army had of course equipped him with a standard M-14 recycled from the Second World War, but he acquired a more treasured piece of equipment during his stay in the jungle. The way he told the story, it all started when a merchant on an elephant passed through his squadron's territory touting wares and only speaking enough English to haggle. Among his wares, of all things, was a big ass wicker basket of tiger kittens. Jim was extremely amused by this, and found himself particularly drawn to the kitten that was being loud, obnoxious, and attacking its cribmates. Jim turned to the guy, pulled out his wallet, said “I'll give ya 15 American for that one”, and, well, the sale was complete then and there. For the rest of the war, Jim had this violent little companion by his side whom he'd affectionately named “Tasha”. Tasha purportedly loved Jim to bits, and absolutely hated everyone else in his regiment, requiring he keep this literal tiger restrained on a heavy chain leash attached to a collar fashioned from a truck tire. He adored his pet, and would've brought it back to Indiana if it weren't for all the money and paperwork that he'd have to go through to make that a reality.

That's about as wholesome as it got. This was the Vietnam War, and I won't sugarcoat that. Jim was a soldier. He saw horrible things, he did horrible things. He watched his comrades die, and he killed his fair share of his fellow human beings. As a kid, I was always kinda uncomfortable asking my grandfather about his time in the war, because I'd always hear the grownups discourage that and warn about PTSD and whatnot. I got older, and at one point he and I were talking about family history while out running errands together. I was bold enough to ask the big questions about his experience in war, and he answered all of them. There wasn't a shred of hesitation, no emotional explosion, no feeling to his answers whatsoever. The conversation had the exact same tone as if he were telling me about last week's milk run. To be entirely honest, that unsettled me a hell of a lot more than if I had upset him or triggered a flashback like in the cartoons. It made me feel so much more sorry for him. There was no repression, no breakdown. The Vietnam War was just a thing. It was a thing he did and a job he completed. That was the only way he processed everything he went through. I got to see a man covered in invisible scars, with a story attached to each one, yet not a single mention of how much it hurt. I stayed up thinking about that a lot. I can't help but think of how openly and callously I talk about my own PTSD, as wildly different on the scale as it is, how I just sort of watch my trauma as if out a window. It's there, it sucks, it's watching, and I'll tell you all about it if you ask, as blankly as if I were telling you about last week's milk run. I can't and don't want to imagine what he saw out his window compared to my dumbass demons.

After a year and a half of bullets, blood, and napalm, Jim was finally released from duty, honorably discharged on September 4, 1968 with the National Defense Service Medal and Vietnam Campaign Medal on his lapel. He was dropped back off in Indiana, with no one to welcome him home. On his way out of base camp, Jim spotted someone from his hometown he recognized. Sadly, it seems I forgot to write down this kid's name, but the important thing was that the boy was fucking fresh. Light in his eyes, cheeks rosy, cracking jokes, and not a care in the world. Jim approached this plucky teenager, and after a few non-starters simply asked, “coming or going?” The kid responded, “going”, and at this point Jim just sort of nodded apologetically and wandered off. Like many veterans, Jim was accosted and spit on on his way home by protesters who had watched all the atrocities the generals forced their soldiers to commit live on television. He was not a war hero, he was a butcher. The icing on the cake was the Dear John letter my grandmother had sent him while he was overseas. He came home to find his lover had gotten hitched to another man, so even she wasn't there to welcome him home. He had to be the one to seek her out, and to his credit, he won her back. She dropped her other boyfriend, and got married to Jim in October 1969, which in any other story would be a nice tidy happy ending to wrap up all the loose ends with.

Of course, real life is more complicated than that. Jim entered civilian life, appropriately, as a truck driver. He and Donna even added a dog to the family, which he named Tasha in honor of the pet he left behind in Vietnam. The couple brought a son into the world, Tim (my dad), in September 1970, and a daughter was followed closely thereafter in 1972. This cookie cutter sitcom family only lasted a few years, however, as ultimately Jim and Donna would get divorced in September 1980. I never felt comfortable asking why, but I can hazard a guess that they fought more than they said I love you. Like, I love my grandma, but she is a wreck and is absolutely the conduit the anxiety disorder genes got passed through to my dad and me. Pa Paw meanwhile, again much as I love him, was a hardass who had a tendency to get very loud very fast. It just wasn't a combo built to last. This is probably where the schism between my dad and grandfather really started. Whereas my aunt was always daddy's perfect little tomboy, my dad was much more of a mama's boy. Even at a young age, the distribution of rewards and punishments always seemed to skew in favor of my aunt, and sadly I can only say it got worse between Jim and Tim from there.

As Tim grew older, the conflicts between him and his father just kept getting more and more adult. My dad is a musician, and has always wanted to be a musician. If you asked my grandfather, he would say he supported this goal, buying his son equipment to supplement his budding natural talent on the guitar. If you ask my dad, however, he certainly didn't feel the amount of support Jim thought he was giving. My dad doesn't shy away from explaining how afraid of his father he was. The way he tells it, after graduating high school, he tentatively walked up to my grandfather's front porch like he was walking into some sort of booby trapped Indiana Jones temple, announced through the screen door that he wanted to forgo going to college and form a band instead, and then as quickly as he said it booked it across town to his mother's place before my grandfather could give him a piece of his mind. Their speaking terms would continue to be in awkward limbo for the rest of Jim's life. At the very least, the shitty treatment my father got inspired him to swear that his own children would never be afraid of him the way he was afraid of his father. The cycle of generational abuse hit a hard stop with my dad, and I truly do not believe I would be here to make funny history jokes with y'all if I didn't have him as my rock. It only takes one person to shut down the merry-go-round. Be that person, if not for your own sake, then for the people who'll come after you. You don't need to be perfect to save a life.

For Jim's part, he kept on trucking. Yeah that's what I'm going with for the only real joke in this blurb, nyeh. In 2001, he married his sweetheart, my Nana Bonnie, and she'd remain by his side for the rest of his life. He'd promised more time to her than he had. He retired well, he got to meet and love his grandkids, but he'd been a heavy smoker all his life. I can't remember any visits to Pa Paw's place where a machine wasn't picking up the slack for his blackened lungs. The big lung cancer diagnosis came around 2018, and the news just got continuously worse from there. I didn't get to see him in the hospital. He requested that I not have to see him like that, and we respected that wish, but I wish we hadn't. I wish I'd gotten to sit down and ask all the questions I never got around to, that I could've recorded more of his story for posterity, but I suppose he never was the sort of man to care much about being remembered beyond his time anyway. Perhaps it's just my rose-tinted glasses. I could always hear my dad talking about how bad it really was through the walls when they thought I was out of earshot. Pa Paw was a tough old bastard, but he was still human, and there were times when the doctor's statement that he had less than a year to live sank in and he didn't handle it as… bravely as the storybook version might have it. I don't think less of him for that. He was scared. We all were. He had a right to be scared, but maybe he was right. Maybe his teenage granddaughter wouldn't be able to watch that. Instead, I just got the drip fed version. For months on end it was “your grandfather could go any day now”, and the thing is, I knew that wasn't entirely true. I don't pretend to know what sort of instinct kept telling me exactly when it would happen, but I could feel it every single time I was told that. I knew for a fact it was going to be November or May. It was going to be Veteran's Day or Memorial Day. You can say a lot of things about Jim Edward Spainhower, but there's not a single person on this Earth that can claim he was not a veteran above all else. He'd served his duty like the Roman legions of old. That was his badge, his pride, his plinth to stand on.

He passed away on May 25, 2019. Two days before Memorial Day.

I don't think any amount of time could've actually prepared us for the loss when it happened. My aunt was hit the hardest. When she saw he wasn't breathing, she shook him in a violent, tear-filled frenzy and demanded my dad wake him up over and over. My dad, of course, was helpless to comply. If nothing else, I'm glad I wasn't in the room on that day, because Christ, I can't even imagine watching that. I'm sorry dad. I know my dad is sorry too. He tried, he truly did, to mend all the wounds with his father while he was on his deathbed, but it didn't pan out. They argued, they said some things they shouldn't have, and then it was too late to say sorry. They were two bull-headed old men stuck in their ways who couldn't get along because they were the exact same person. That shit still weighs on my dad. I don't blame him, and I wish he wouldn't blame himself. This is why my father has always been the only person on this planet who has continuously encouraged me to try and have a functional relationship with my mother. He knows what it's like for it to be too late, and he would never wish the feelings he carries on his own children, no matter how heinous my mother is. Unfortunately, I just can't live in that reality right now, but I won't lie, my dad is my rock, and seeing this pain behind his eyes every time I talk to him does keep me up at night wondering about the day I might very well feel the same confliction. I'll never forget the night he came into my room, clearly having indulged in a dose of liquid courage which wasn't enough. He smiled sadly as he cried and just solemnly acknowledged, “my dad’s dead”. I think that's the only time I have ever heard him refer to Pa Paw as “my dad” instead of “your grandfather”.

We held a service shortly thereafter, with a lot of relatives I honestly have never met. It was a simple wake. Pa Paw didn't want a funeral. He wanted to leave the world as humbly as he had entered it. We exchanged words and memories, and then released balloons into the sky as our last goodbye. That's why every Memorial Day since, I've gotten a new balloon to repeat the ritual, and I'll continue to do so every year for as long as I live. It took a while after that, but Jim Spainhower’s ashes were ultimately interred at Arlington Cemetery on September 16, 2022. He's exactly where he wanted to be: shoulder to shoulder with his fellow servicemen for all eternity. A priest read him his rights under an American flag to the tune of a 21-gun salute, delivering his soul into the arms of his God. He didn't ask for any further fanfare than what he was owed as an American who served. He was an American citizen, a simple working man who came into this world, did his duty, and bowed stoically out of it. Men of lesser character have killed and cheated for even a modicum of this kind of honor. I hope when the gates of the underworld open for me, I possess the humility to leave Midgard just as quietly.

I won't forget you, Pa Paw. Our time was brief, but I value it. Your blood lives on in me, and I take that responsibility seriously. Through the magic of the internet, I've even made friends from Vietnam, cherished loved ones whose grandparents fought on the other side, friends who don't shy away from discussing the impact the war has had on both our nations in a respectful and civilized manner. I like to think that, as the vessels of our ancestors’ blood, it is our purpose and responsibility to cool it. We are not born to continue old conflicts or carry the fire of hate, but to mend the wounds that led to those misunderstandings in the first place, so that our shell-shocked grandfathers may rest with their business finished. The war is over, Pa Paw, may that grant you the peace you so desperately needed. If for whatever reason your God will not welcome you into His halls, then I will find you in Thrudheim with the other great unnamed warriors, and we will exchange stories so adventurous and asinine that we'll force milk out of the thunder god's nose. Until then, I live in your stead, and I carry your name in the middle of my own. I am Ava Jamessa Spainhower, granddaughter of the mightest drengr I've ever known.

Design notes, alright thanks for braving through that with me everyone. Like I said, writing this was very difficult and personal. Drawing this was a little easier, but combing through old family photographs is very… surreal. I remember my grandfather being a big sweater guy, and I found one I really liked in an old sepia picture of him with my dad and aunt. I threw a few personal embellishments in there as per usual, and I added a green vest as a nod to his army background. Originally, I was going to make his outfit a lot more militaristic and geared out, but then I decided no, I'd like him to have a civilian design first as a base. Maybe next year I'll trick him out with armor. The vest is meant to resemble a flak vest, even if it's not necessarily armored. I'm not really used to heavy padded vests like that though. It's kinda bugging me how… round it made his frame look. Sorry Pa Paw I was trying to make you look like a big tree trunk of a soldier, I swear. I did give him the sort of belt you'd find on a Plumber suit and some heavy boots to match. I couldn't help myself, I had to get some Grandpa Max vibes in there somewhere XD He might not have been as sagely as Max Tennyson but I'm sure he'd have killed it fighting extraterrestrials.

Description
For most of us Hoosiers, Memorial Day is about one thing and one thing only: the big race. That and… making the lives of us retail workers a living hell in the lead up to that race. Every May, millions of people rev up for the Indy 500, ready and set to drink, barbecue, and get as rowdy as the law will allow… and… usually beyond. For me, though, Memorial Day is a time to quietly remember and honor my grandfather, Jim, affectionately known as Pa Paw to me and my brother. I don't have as many memories of my grandfather as I would like, but all the ones I do have are good, and I'm grateful for that. Was he a perfect man? No. I've heard him use some… frankly appalling words to describe the Vietnamese people, and I highly doubt he would've approved of my “progressive lifestyle”. He was very much a product of his time, and as such I had a very difficult time explaining to him that my anxiety disorder was a disorder, not that I'm “just anxious” about my problems. Still, he saw I was struggling and in a lot of pain, and he genuinely tried to help as best he understood the situation. He had my back when I asked, and that's enough for me to remember him fondly. He made me laugh and he shared his stories, so today I'd like to share some of those stories with you. He always got a kick out of my art stuff, and was a big history buff like me, so I can't think of a much better way to honor him. Fair warning, this one's not going to be very funny. There was a lot of not fun stuff in my grandfather's life, and writing this was pretty difficult to get through. I choose to remember him as he was, though, good and bad, so I won't skimp out on the details.

James Edward Spainhower III (he could've been James V but there's an awkward Bert interrupting the streak a few generations up the line) was born on October 16, 1947 in Troy, New York, the son of WW2 veterans Jim Junior Spainhower and Betty Fogarty. He was born just a few minutes before his twin brother Bill, a factoid which Jim would lord over Bill's head for their entire lives. They didn't hate one another, far from it, they were just brothers, and you know how that goes. Both of them have told me the story of how one time they were dicking around in the backyard, Bill did something to piss Jim off, and Jim got so frustrated that he picked up a hammer and chucked it into the back of Bill's head like a fucking tomahawk. Bill's side of the story obviously blacks out there, but Jim says his stomach dropped when Bill just kinda deactivated into the ground. Jim booked it the fuck out of town for a while because if he'd just killed his brother, his rancid old man was going to beat the shit out of him. Miraculously, Bill survived this hammering pretty much unscathed, because redneck kids seemingly have the healing powers of Wolverine. In their adult years, this terrifying incident became a big laugh to recall.

Jim didn't have much time to develop memories of New York. His family packed up and moved to his father's home state of Indiana in 1948. I'm not entirely sure why, because their father had run away from home and joined the army just to escape the abuse in the first place. I never really thought to ask when I was younger, and no one alive today seems to know. Apparently my great grandfather was a bit averse to talking about his past. I guess to be fair, Pa Paw didn't talk much about this time period either. The only story I think I ever heard him mention about his grandfather was vague recollections of fishing at his property on Donnell Lake up in Michigan. Whatever the reason, Mishawaka, Indiana would be his home for the majority of his life. It's here that he grew into what can only be described as a “punk ass teenager”, complete with motorcycle, leather jacket, greased hair, and all those other things which the 60s couldn't handle. This drip and swagger got Jim hitched to a rich blonde bombshell from California, and that's a very strange mental image which I still kinda struggle to reconcile with because to me that girl is who became my Grandma Donna. Obviously for Jim, this was awesome. He was charming, he was free, and he had a hot babe on his hip. The man was going into his adult years living his best life.

Then, he got the letter.

On December 8, 1966, at the age of just nineteen, Jim pulled a call from Uncle Sam out of his mailbox. The way he told it, he stood there in the snow for God knows how long, shaking as the words on his draft notice sank in. President Johnson was dragging him into his war on the other side of the world, a war where men died drowned in mud, hung from trees, suffocating on gasoline, or incinerated with napalm. Jim, knowing his life was over, ran out into the street, fell to his knees, clutched the letter in his fist, and screamed into the sky an echoing “fuck you” to Johnson, God Himself, or whoever else he knew wasn't listening anyway. His curse fell on deaf ears, and he was shipped off for drilling. I don't recall any specific stories told about his first experiences here in the armed forces, but I do have this little anecdote: my dad is a simple man, and he finds the scene in the 1987 film Full Metal Jacket where the sergeant just completely lays into his recruits absolutely hilarious. My dad told me when he was a lot younger and he was watching the movie with my grandfather as dumb kid, he innocently asked my grandfather why he wasn't laughing too. My grandfather had been sitting there on the couch, stiff, totally silent, and upright, and his only answer to his cackling son was, “you don't laugh”.

After being crushed and broken into a soldier for six months, the time came to muster out. Private Jim Spainhower left his country behind for Vietnam in June 1967. He was assigned as a heavy truck driver in the 91st Engineer Company, and eventually worked his way up to the rank of Technical Specialist 4th Class on November 16. The army had of course equipped him with a standard M-14 recycled from the Second World War, but he acquired a more treasured piece of equipment during his stay in the jungle. The way he told the story, it all started when a merchant on an elephant passed through his squadron's territory touting wares and only speaking enough English to haggle. Among his wares, of all things, was a big ass wicker basket of tiger kittens. Jim was extremely amused by this, and found himself particularly drawn to the kitten that was being loud, obnoxious, and attacking its cribmates. Jim turned to the guy, pulled out his wallet, said “I'll give ya 15 American for that one”, and, well, the sale was complete then and there. For the rest of the war, Jim had this violent little companion by his side whom he'd affectionately named “Tasha”. Tasha purportedly loved Jim to bits, and absolutely hated everyone else in his regiment, requiring he keep this literal tiger restrained on a heavy chain leash attached to a collar fashioned from a truck tire. He adored his pet, and would've brought it back to Indiana if it weren't for all the money and paperwork that he'd have to go through to make that a reality.

That's about as wholesome as it got. This was the Vietnam War, and I won't sugarcoat that. Jim was a soldier. He saw horrible things, he did horrible things. He watched his comrades die, and he killed his fair share of his fellow human beings. As a kid, I was always kinda uncomfortable asking my grandfather about his time in the war, because I'd always hear the grownups discourage that and warn about PTSD and whatnot. I got older, and at one point he and I were talking about family history while out running errands together. I was bold enough to ask the big questions about his experience in war, and he answered all of them. There wasn't a shred of hesitation, no emotional explosion, no feeling to his answers whatsoever. The conversation had the exact same tone as if he were telling me about last week's milk run. To be entirely honest, that unsettled me a hell of a lot more than if I had upset him or triggered a flashback like in the cartoons. It made me feel so much more sorry for him. There was no repression, no breakdown. The Vietnam War was just a thing. It was a thing he did and a job he completed. That was the only way he processed everything he went through. I got to see a man covered in invisible scars, with a story attached to each one, yet not a single mention of how much it hurt. I stayed up thinking about that a lot. I can't help but think of how openly and callously I talk about my own PTSD, as wildly different on the scale as it is, how I just sort of watch my trauma as if out a window. It's there, it sucks, it's watching, and I'll tell you all about it if you ask, as blankly as if I were telling you about last week's milk run. I can't and don't want to imagine what he saw out his window compared to my dumbass demons.

After a year and a half of bullets, blood, and napalm, Jim was finally released from duty, honorably discharged on September 4, 1968 with the National Defense Service Medal and Vietnam Campaign Medal on his lapel. He was dropped back off in Indiana, with no one to welcome him home. On his way out of base camp, Jim spotted someone from his hometown he recognized. Sadly, it seems I forgot to write down this kid's name, but the important thing was that the boy was fucking fresh. Light in his eyes, cheeks rosy, cracking jokes, and not a care in the world. Jim approached this plucky teenager, and after a few non-starters simply asked, “coming or going?” The kid responded, “going”, and at this point Jim just sort of nodded apologetically and wandered off. Like many veterans, Jim was accosted and spit on on his way home by protesters who had watched all the atrocities the generals forced their soldiers to commit live on television. He was not a war hero, he was a butcher. The icing on the cake was the Dear John letter my grandmother had sent him while he was overseas. He came home to find his lover had gotten hitched to another man, so even she wasn't there to welcome him home. He had to be the one to seek her out, and to his credit, he won her back. She dropped her other boyfriend, and got married to Jim in October 1969, which in any other story would be a nice tidy happy ending to wrap up all the loose ends with.

Of course, real life is more complicated than that. Jim entered civilian life, appropriately, as a truck driver. He and Donna even added a dog to the family, which he named Tasha in honor of the pet he left behind in Vietnam. The couple brought a son into the world, Tim (my dad), in September 1970, and a daughter was followed closely thereafter in 1972. This cookie cutter sitcom family only lasted a few years, however, as ultimately Jim and Donna would get divorced in September 1980. I never felt comfortable asking why, but I can hazard a guess that they fought more than they said I love you. Like, I love my grandma, but she is a wreck and is absolutely the conduit the anxiety disorder genes got passed through to my dad and me. Pa Paw meanwhile, again much as I love him, was a hardass who had a tendency to get very loud very fast. It just wasn't a combo built to last. This is probably where the schism between my dad and grandfather really started. Whereas my aunt was always daddy's perfect little tomboy, my dad was much more of a mama's boy. Even at a young age, the distribution of rewards and punishments always seemed to skew in favor of my aunt, and sadly I can only say it got worse between Jim and Tim from there.

As Tim grew older, the conflicts between him and his father just kept getting more and more adult. My dad is a musician, and has always wanted to be a musician. If you asked my grandfather, he would say he supported this goal, buying his son equipment to supplement his budding natural talent on the guitar. If you ask my dad, however, he certainly didn't feel the amount of support Jim thought he was giving. My dad doesn't shy away from explaining how afraid of his father he was. The way he tells it, after graduating high school, he tentatively walked up to my grandfather's front porch like he was walking into some sort of booby trapped Indiana Jones temple, announced through the screen door that he wanted to forgo going to college and form a band instead, and then as quickly as he said it booked it across town to his mother's place before my grandfather could give him a piece of his mind. Their speaking terms would continue to be in awkward limbo for the rest of Jim's life. At the very least, the shitty treatment my father got inspired him to swear that his own children would never be afraid of him the way he was afraid of his father. The cycle of generational abuse hit a hard stop with my dad, and I truly do not believe I would be here to make funny history jokes with y'all if I didn't have him as my rock. It only takes one person to shut down the merry-go-round. Be that person, if not for your own sake, then for the people who'll come after you. You don't need to be perfect to save a life.

For Jim's part, he kept on trucking. Yeah that's what I'm going with for the only real joke in this blurb, nyeh. In 2001, he married his sweetheart, my Nana Bonnie, and she'd remain by his side for the rest of his life. He'd promised more time to her than he had. He retired well, he got to meet and love his grandkids, but he'd been a heavy smoker all his life. I can't remember any visits to Pa Paw's place where a machine wasn't picking up the slack for his blackened lungs. The big lung cancer diagnosis came around 2018, and the news just got continuously worse from there. I didn't get to see him in the hospital. He requested that I not have to see him like that, and we respected that wish, but I wish we hadn't. I wish I'd gotten to sit down and ask all the questions I never got around to, that I could've recorded more of his story for posterity, but I suppose he never was the sort of man to care much about being remembered beyond his time anyway. Perhaps it's just my rose-tinted glasses. I could always hear my dad talking about how bad it really was through the walls when they thought I was out of earshot. Pa Paw was a tough old bastard, but he was still human, and there were times when the doctor's statement that he had less than a year to live sank in and he didn't handle it as… bravely as the storybook version might have it. I don't think less of him for that. He was scared. We all were. He had a right to be scared, but maybe he was right. Maybe his teenage granddaughter wouldn't be able to watch that. Instead, I just got the drip fed version. For months on end it was “your grandfather could go any day now”, and the thing is, I knew that wasn't entirely true. I don't pretend to know what sort of instinct kept telling me exactly when it would happen, but I could feel it every single time I was told that. I knew for a fact it was going to be November or May. It was going to be Veteran's Day or Memorial Day. You can say a lot of things about Jim Edward Spainhower, but there's not a single person on this Earth that can claim he was not a veteran above all else. He'd served his duty like the Roman legions of old. That was his badge, his pride, his plinth to stand on.

He passed away on May 25, 2019. Two days before Memorial Day.

I don't think any amount of time could've actually prepared us for the loss when it happened. My aunt was hit the hardest. When she saw he wasn't breathing, she shook him in a violent, tear-filled frenzy and demanded my dad wake him up over and over. My dad, of course, was helpless to comply. If nothing else, I'm glad I wasn't in the room on that day, because Christ, I can't even imagine watching that. I'm sorry dad. I know my dad is sorry too. He tried, he truly did, to mend all the wounds with his father while he was on his deathbed, but it didn't pan out. They argued, they said some things they shouldn't have, and then it was too late to say sorry. They were two bull-headed old men stuck in their ways who couldn't get along because they were the exact same person. That shit still weighs on my dad. I don't blame him, and I wish he wouldn't blame himself. This is why my father has always been the only person on this planet who has continuously encouraged me to try and have a functional relationship with my mother. He knows what it's like for it to be too late, and he would never wish the feelings he carries on his own children, no matter how heinous my mother is. Unfortunately, I just can't live in that reality right now, but I won't lie, my dad is my rock, and seeing this pain behind his eyes every time I talk to him does keep me up at night wondering about the day I might very well feel the same confliction. I'll never forget the night he came into my room, clearly having indulged in a dose of liquid courage which wasn't enough. He smiled sadly as he cried and just solemnly acknowledged, “my dad’s dead”. I think that's the only time I have ever heard him refer to Pa Paw as “my dad” instead of “your grandfather”.

We held a service shortly thereafter, with a lot of relatives I honestly have never met. It was a simple wake. Pa Paw didn't want a funeral. He wanted to leave the world as humbly as he had entered it. We exchanged words and memories, and then released balloons into the sky as our last goodbye. That's why every Memorial Day since, I've gotten a new balloon to repeat the ritual, and I'll continue to do so every year for as long as I live. It took a while after that, but Jim Spainhower’s ashes were ultimately interred at Arlington Cemetery on September 16, 2022. He's exactly where he wanted to be: shoulder to shoulder with his fellow servicemen for all eternity. A priest read him his rights under an American flag to the tune of a 21-gun salute, delivering his soul into the arms of his God. He didn't ask for any further fanfare than what he was owed as an American who served. He was an American citizen, a simple working man who came into this world, did his duty, and bowed stoically out of it. Men of lesser character have killed and cheated for even a modicum of this kind of honor. I hope when the gates of the underworld open for me, I possess the humility to leave Midgard just as quietly.

I won't forget you, Pa Paw. Our time was brief, but I value it. Your blood lives on in me, and I take that responsibility seriously. Through the magic of the internet, I've even made friends from Vietnam, cherished loved ones whose grandparents fought on the other side, friends who don't shy away from discussing the impact the war has had on both our nations in a respectful and civilized manner. I like to think that, as the vessels of our ancestors’ blood, it is our purpose and responsibility to cool it. We are not born to continue old conflicts or carry the fire of hate, but to mend the wounds that led to those misunderstandings in the first place, so that our shell-shocked grandfathers may rest with their business finished. The war is over, Pa Paw, may that grant you the peace you so desperately needed. If for whatever reason your God will not welcome you into His halls, then I will find you in Thrudheim with the other great unnamed warriors, and we will exchange stories so adventurous and asinine that we'll force milk out of the thunder god's nose. Until then, I live in your stead, and I carry your name in the middle of my own. I am Ava Jamessa Spainhower, granddaughter of the mightest drengr I've ever known.

Design notes, alright thanks for braving through that with me everyone. Like I said, writing this was very difficult and personal. Drawing this was a little easier, but combing through old family photographs is very… surreal. I remember my grandfather being a big sweater guy, and I found one I really liked in an old sepia picture of him with my dad and aunt. I threw a few personal embellishments in there as per usual, and I added a green vest as a nod to his army background. Originally, I was going to make his outfit a lot more militaristic and geared out, but then I decided no, I'd like him to have a civilian design first as a base. Maybe next year I'll trick him out with armor. The vest is meant to resemble a flak vest, even if it's not necessarily armored. I'm not really used to heavy padded vests like that though. It's kinda bugging me how… round it made his frame look. Sorry Pa Paw I was trying to make you look like a big tree trunk of a soldier, I swear. I did give him the sort of belt you'd find on a Plumber suit and some heavy boots to match. I couldn't help myself, I had to get some Grandpa Max vibes in there somewhere XD He might not have been as sagely as Max Tennyson but I'm sure he'd have killed it fighting extraterrestrials.