Special inheritance

A special inheritance

Story by Steve A. Maze Photos from the author’s collection

My grandfather’s character was one I used to size up all men. I guess that’s why a lot of them never measured up.

A simple lifestyle gave Paw Paw – a name he preferred and one he cherished – the greatest pleasure.

Paw Paw was a hard-work and nononsense type of man. His work clothes consisted of overalls, brogan shoes, longsleeved shirts and a broad-brimmed straw hat. He was similar to a blue collar worker who carried a lunch pail to his job. The only difference was the lack of a name patch sewn above his shirt pocket.

He rose before the fields shook off the morning dew to work in the dust and buzzing insects on his little farm in northeast Cullman County. After sunset, he would milk the cow inside his barn of weathered wood turned gray by years of hot sun, rain and cold winters. Paw Paw then walked to the house he hand-built of sawmill lumber back in 1911 to enjoy Grandma’s good cooking.

He was small of stature, but his muscular body looked to be put together by a welder. His face resembled a clenched fist from the long hours under the fierce sun that boiled the sweat on his leathery brow.

Paw Paw’s soft and loving heart was totally different from his hard-bitten outward appearance, however. His rough, calloused hands could gently and lovingly hold one of his dozen grandchildren. And he never failed to find each of us a shiny quarter in his change purse when we sat atop his knee.

After a rain-shortened day in the fields, he might join us grandkids in a corncob battle behind the barn, or allow us to swim in the creek that ran through his property. Even though he believed hard work was the key to being lucky, Paw Paw indulged us while we scrambled to find four-leaf clovers hiding in his luscious green pasture. He taught us to toss horseshoes – which he had hammered into shape on his anvil – over our left shoulder in an attempt to find good fortune. Jay Hugh “Paw Paw” Maze photographed with his wife, the former Earlie Bannister, and daughters Fleecie and baby Lorene, circa 1913.

Paw Paw welcomed sons- and daughters-in-law into the family as if they were one of his own. The only time I saw him cry was when a son-in-law died at a young age from a heart attack. He took to his bed as soon as we came home from my uncle’s funeral. Man-sized tears rolled down his face in the deep, sunburned lines that more resembled ruts.

Things were either right or wrong in Paw Paw’s world. There was no gray area. Doing the right thing applied to all – no matter how much money you had or didn’t have. A handshake or a man’s word was better than a written contract in his day. Honor was still in style at that particular time period, and Paw Paw gripped his Bible tightly in such matters.

If a neighbor was in distress, he felt it was his duty, as well as other members of the community, to help them. He and others regularly tended and harvested the crops of widows and those who fell ill.

After the harvesting was finished and the cool autumn air was upon them, the men erected barns, doctored farm animals or butchered a hog for a neighbor because it was the right thing to do.

Paw Paw only owned one car during his lifetime – a brand new 1926 Model-T Ford he purchased for a whopping $500. He sold it for $50 when unable to obtain fuel and tires for it due to World War II rationing.

Paw Paw purchased a Farmall Super A tractor in the early ’50s and that became his mode of transportation.

He also obtained a salvaged military trailer after the war to pull behind the tractor.

Sideboards were added so Grandma could ride atop the dried corn Paw Paw carried to the mill to have ground into cornmeal. Of course, she waved at everyone they met driving on the route.

Much like a creeping iceberg, old age and poor health slowly sneaked up on Paw Paw.

In his mind, you were either lazy or no account if you didn’t do some type of work. He said there was always something to do on a farm, and doing “something” enabled him to keep his pride and self worth.

When no longer able to work the fields, he “hulled” butter beans or helped Grandma string green beans while sitting in his cane-bottomed chair on the front porch.

Paw Paw could tell who was coming up the dirt road whenever he spotted a cloud of dust a quarter-mile away. A squeak, rattle, roar of the motor or speed of the vehicle allowed him to identify the driver.

And, of course, he waved to everyone that passed their home. I guess that was an unwritten law in the South.

The stoop in Paw Paw’s back gradually increased over the years until it morphed into a permanent fixture. When he became bedridden the stoop was so pronounced that he appeared to be trying to rise up out of bed.

Like an old car, Paw Paw was simply worn out at the end of his life. There were no missing pieces, but the pieces he had simply no longer worked. And death finally relieved him from his arthritic body 15 days short of his 90th birthday.

It’s still hard to believe he has been gone for almost a half century. I still recall that cool fall day in 1977 when we buried him, but I most remember my griefstricken Grandma. Paw Paw took her heart with him when he died. He had been the only egg in her basket for 70 years.

Paw Paw did leave something for the rest of us, however. He left his descendants an inheritance of a strong moral compass and a good work ethic, which has benefited us all these many years.

Many of you, I certainly hope, recognize some of Paw Paw’s characteristics as similar to those belonging to your loved ones. In that case, we all have a special inheritance to celebrate.

Showing off new clothes and prized possessions in 1933, Paw Paw holds his shotgun with one hand, his bird dog with the other. Grandson Coy Holaway holds his ukulele. Grandma holds the author’s father, Marlon Maze, with his toy gun and pet pigeons.

Jay Hugh and Earlie Maze at their 50th anniversary in 1958.