The One They Called Seventh Son

I first met Rankin Creech when I was born although I have no memory of it. He was my mother's father and he passed away a few years ago after a long bout with cancer.  Rank, as he was known to all, Papaw as he was known to me, had a unique way with words.  His language was peppered with "Rankisms" as they came to be known to everyone in our family.   A few examples follow:

If you ain't loving, you ain't living.
Love makes the world go round but money greases the wheel.
Hope for the best, expect the worst, and do the possible.
A whiskey glass and a whore's ass will make a horse's ass out of you.

Pretty good advice all the way around.  But he was much more than the "Rankisms."

Papaw was born a seventh son of a seventh son and he never lay eyes on his father.  In Appalachian culture and folklore, this gave him the magical ability to breathe into a baby's mouth and cure the thrush and charm warts off your body with a touch and a few whispered words.  Apparently, this worked, because my mother swore it worked on the warts on my hand.   His mother was a Cherokee Indian and his father died before he was born.  To say he was unique was an understatement.  He was brilliant and eccentric.  But he was also kind to a fault.

When I was a little girl, he used to dazzle me with his musical ability.  Self-taught both to play music and to read words, he was a thrilling musician to watch.  He could play any instrument by ear and sing songs with a massive amount of emotion.  The hairs on my neck would raise when he would sing The Green Green Grass of Home.   I can clearly remember my family gathered around, after a supper of my Mamaw's excellent cooking, listening to Rank play and sing.

He was a beautiful man who did not age until he was in his late 70's.  He looked perpetually 38 years old.  Dark hair, dark eyes, and moustached, Rankin dressed in black until I was in my 20's.  He loved western wear and cowboy boots.  He wore his clothes close to his skin.  He exercised regularly and took vitamins everyday.  He was married to my Mamaw until she died in the 80's, for more than 45 years.  After my Mamaw died, Rankin lived a different life.

Growing up in the hills of Harlan County, Kentucky, my Papaw worked in the mines until retirement.  He broke his back when he was very young in a mining accident and was in a body-cast for a year. When the cast came off, he went back to work.  After the accident, he never missed one day of work.

He taught himself to read as an adult.  He was able to comprehend the mystical with ease, often providing commentary on the Bible to my mother, aunts and uncles.  He knew most of the Bible by heart and was able to quote it easily and apply it to most any situation.  But he was not a preacher in the traditional sense.  Rank was more about celebrating joy and passion.  He lived his life the way he wanted to live it and when it was in his power, he gave others what they wished for.  I always wished for a piano.

When I was five years old, Rank discussed my musical ability with me in-depth.  I didn't know I had any musical ability so I was intrigued by his assessment.  According to him, I was capable of doing anything in the world, playing music was just the tip of the iceberg.  His total, utter belief in me was staggering.  He was such a large figure - a huge personality.  To think this dude believed in my as-so-far-unseen talent was heartening.  On his own, he determined that I needed to play the piano because young ladies played the piano.  My Mamaw agreed and the next thing I knew, I had a piano in my living room.  Rank's criteria for the gift was that I had to get lessons and learn to play The Shifting Whispering Sands by the Sons of the Pioneers.  And I did take lessons for five years and I went to a neighbor's house in Benham, KY to play the song he requested whenever he wanted.  I committed it to memory.  And I played the keys off that piano.  I didn't realize the gift that he gave me would be so enduring.  He gave me the gift of music - to calm me in the storm, to complement my thoughts, and to celebrate my joy. Music became a secret world that I could escape to when people thought I was weird or a geek.  In my mind, while I played my Papaw's piano, I was Mozart or Bach, Beethoven or Chopin, Liszt performing for the masses.  A great ego booster for a tween.

His ingenuity was well-known.   He could engineer complex solutions to most electrical and plumbing difficulties with not much more than black electrical tape and wire strippers.  He was a force to be reckoned with - he was a force of nature.

When my son refused to be potty-trained, it was Papaw's idea that solved the problem.  He said, get that boy something he wants, and then make him wait for it.  My mom bought a super-soaker water gun that she let Jack pick out.  He was so excited.  They got home from Walmart, filled it up, he got to shoot it for 1 minute then my mother took it away and said - "when you're ready to be a big boy and pee in the potty, you can have the gun."  My son raged for three days before running to the back porch, jerking down his pants and peeing on her flowers.  When he pulled up his pants, his little face in a sort of righteous anger, he said, "I DESERVE to play with that water gun."  And after that, he never even had an accident.  All because Rank understood how to motivate  Jack to action.  He knew how to motivate anyone.  His real gift was truly understanding the human condition.  He made no excuses, he felt no judgement, he gave his opinion if asked, and he minded his own business.

I am glad that my son got to know him.  He enjoyed my hubby's company, always calling him Jacob even though his name is Jay.  He was always glad to see me, even though I played Lyle Lovett's I Loved You Yesterday once about 10 times until he cried over a broken love affair.  I was not able to appreciate him then - I was so angry over my Mamaw's passing that I took a lot of that anger out on him.  But I was wrong to do that.  He was good to my Mamaw and he didn't want to be alone after her passing.  Hell, who wants to be alone anyway?

I think of him often.  When I do, I always smile.  I will never know another seventh son - I hope no one gets the thrush.