GEORGE REAVIS SAPPENFIELD

     My birth certificate reads, George Reavis Sappenfield, III (Bucky).  My father was George Reavis Sappenfield, Jr. and my grandfather was George Reavis Sappenfield.  My grandfather’s little brother, called Buck, died shortly before I was born and they tacked “Bucky” on my handle to avoid confusion with the other two.    

     When my grandfather was a kid, his grandfather George Washington Sappenfield, was around.  So they addressed my grandfather as Reavis, which was his mother’s maiden name.

     We all called my grandfather, Reavis, even his grandchildren (I am not sure why there was no grandpa, pa-paw or other name).  It was a more formal relationship.  All my life my own father was more like an older brother who pushed his will onto me.  My grandfather, Reavis, would intercede on my behalf and my father would acquiesce to his will.   

     I recall being at Reavis and Granny’s for breakfast.  Granny asked what I wanted and dad said I would have a couple of fried eggs.  Because he forced his own terribly cooked fried eggs down my throat every other day of the week, I was looking forward to something different.  I began to cry.

    Reavis looked up from his Dallas Morning News at the breakfast table and asked me what was wrong.  My father said nothing was wrong.  Reavis ignored him and asked me again.  I said I did not want to eat fried eggs.  He said, “Hell boy, you don’t have to eat something you don’t want.  Your granny will fix you anything.”  She did too!  My father scowled at me and Reavis told him to knock it off, it was ruining my breakfast.  I wanted to kiss him!

     We lived in Sherman, 17 miles from Whitesboro, and would often go see Reavis and Granny on Sunday after church.  My brothers and I would be entertained by my dad’s youngest brother, beloved Uncle Phin and we would have supper, then watch TV.  (We did not own a TV.)     

     Like clock work, right before Bonanza came on dad would announce it was time to leave.  My brothers and I would look to Reavis, he would see our desperation and say, “Oh what’s the rush?  Let the boys see Bonanza!”  My father would cave…every time.  Each visit it was the same routine.

     As I grew older I was able to have meaningful conversations with my grandfather and I came to realize he understood the difficult relationship I had with my father.  He sort of apologized, indicated he did not understand my dad either and there was not a lot to do about it.  

     As an adult I would often drop by and spend the night with my grandparents if I had business in the Dallas.  We would attend the Methodist church across the street and my granny usually would spend another half-hour after church,  talking with her fellow elderly Methodist lady-zealots.  

     Reavis and I would go home and he would produce a bottle of the most god-awful whiskey from a hidden cabinet in the kitchen.  I do not know what this was about.  I felt he was never truly comfortable in church and perhaps it was something to do with the cross winds of his psyche struggling for his soul.   At any rate, he would pour himself a very small shot of this cleaning fluid-like bourbon and toss it down.    He offered me one, I would decline by saying I wanted to maintain the lining of my esophagus.       

     Some time later I gave him a fine bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon for this Sunday ritual and indicated I could now join him, since he had something fit to drink.  He looked at the Wild Turkey and said, “This is a problem.  I will have to drink this with my eyes closed, as I hold my nose.  Because if I see good bourbon or smell good bourbon, my mouth waters, and I just hate watered down bourbon.”  He was also famous for his observation, “Coffee does not take near as much water as most folks think”.  (I believe this observation was also attributed to Festus on Gunsmoke.  But, my grandfather embraced it, as his coffee would attest.)

     After I moved to Indianapolis, Reavis would load up Granny and come see us the day before the annual Indianapolis 500 Race.    He loved the race and Granny loved me and my children, her great grandchildren.  

     The day after the race, Reavis would again load Granny up in the car and drive back to Whiteboro…all 850 miles.  He did not like to stay in one place too long.  I pointed out I had seen his activities first hand in Whitesboro and he did not have too much going on.  His response was always the same, “Hell boy, I have to get back”.  

     When I would complain about this to Phin he would say Reavis and Granny would come up for a gun show in Tulsa, where Phin and his family lived.   (Guns were another of my grandfather’s passions).    The way Phin described it, Reavis would go to the show, drive to Phin’s house, Granny would go inside, pee and kiss Phin’s baby boy…her grandson.   All the while Reavis sat in his car revving his engine.    Granny would get back in the car and they would drive back home.  This of course was an exaggeration, but he made it clear he wanted to “Get back to Whitesboro!”  It was akin to a devout Christian wanting to be home when the Rapture kicked in!

     Around 1986, my little Granny was diagnosed with brain cancer.  There were treatments she could undergo, but she said she wanted to go home,     meaning heaven.  Her faith had always sustained her and we had often teased her as she pointed her family to the way to salvation.  It was no longer funny.  I cried and begged her to go through the available medical treatments, but she lovingly patted my hand and changed the subject.  She soon could not recognize us, but always smiled and held my hand.  She died in early ’87.       

     Several months later Reavis began to date!  I was incredulous!  He was in his early 80’s and there were widows his age all over Grayson County.  He was like a kid in a candy store.  I made trips to Whitesboro to take him and his lady friends to Tioga for barbecue.  He made one more trip to the Indianapolis 500 in ’87 (at my insistence by plane) and we planned on another for ’88.  However, while driving his pickup on a date, he was killed by a drunk driver.  That son-of-a-bitch got off and never had to answer for killing my grandfather. 

     Phin and I still swap Reavis stories and laugh.   If I had gotten along better with my own father I would have named my first born son George Reavis Sappenfield IV.  But I had a cousin named Reavis Todd and I did not want to call my son George, which is what my dad went by.   

     Reavis provided me with a lot of wonderful memories, a family legacy to hang my hat on and a meaningful male role model to attempt to emulate.  I know he and Granny would enjoy my grown children and my grandchildren, while insisting we all stay for Bonanza.