The One-Handed Economist

I don’t know exactly how one is supposed to sum up a life like that of Joe H. Foy Sr. I suppose that I could read off the list of accolades: partner at Bracewell & Patterson, negotiating with OPEC in the 70s, Carter asking him to be the first Secretary of Energy…that time he met Harry Truman, but anyone who knew him knows those things and they don’t really give a full, or even accurate, picture of the man. I suppose I’ll start with this: he was my grandfather, and I spent my whole life calling him potato.

You see, in Spanish papá, with the accent over the second a, means Father, but papa as pronounced by a small, monolingual child means potato and for my entire life that’s who he was: Papa. And he loved it. And he loved me, despite that when I was growing up his most common utterance was “Goddamn it, Timothy!” in that deep, resonating baritone. I was a bit of a rascal, I probably had it coming. My memories of him are a bit of a jumble, so many of them coming in that hazy early childhood few of us can recall, but I will do my best to dutifully recount a representative sample despite being neither a writer nor orator of any great skill.

When I was very young, probably two or three, I remember curling up next to him in my grandparents’ seemingly infinite bed and making him read me Rikki, Tikki, Tavi over and over and over again. Every time I would see him, I’d say “Papa, read to me” and he would, patiently, recounting every last syllable with grace. He never tired of it, although I secretly suspect that teaching me to read a couple of years later was a direct result of my insistence that he must read me that story at every opportunity. To this day I love that story, I love mongooses, I get a thrill out of the Rikki saving the lives of that family, and killing those nasty cobras. And when I read it, every time, I can hear Papa’s voice in my head.

Years later, but while I was still small because it was before we moved from Houston, Papa decided that he should take me to the ballet. The Nutcracker, to be precise, in order to help me learn to appreciate culture. It may have had something to do with his heavy involvement in the Houston Opera, but I don’t really know. In any case, I was having none of it. By the intermission I’d had enough: crying, wanting to leave, exhorting him that, “Papa, I don’t like cwassical music, I like wok and woll.” That quote was delivered in the manner he used when teasing me about the incident up until the very end. Last Christmas, I think, or maybe last spring, was the last time he gave me a hard time about that particular thing…that happened when I was five.

Long after we’d moved to Oregon, Papa and my grandmother came to visit, and we trekked up to Vancouver, BC for a few days. On the trip my sister was given a copy of There’s A Carrot In My Ear and Other Noodle Tales by Alvin Schwartz, and one day Papa decided to read it out loud for all of us. The punchline of the titular story is something like, “There’s a carrot in my ear, but I have no idea how it got there: I planted radishes!” I wish that I could describe the way in which he laughed at that, it was the kind of laugh that becomes legendary, almost a caricature of itself. He panted, he turned bright, bright red, he cried, he wheezed, and he carried on for what seemed like an eternity. I have never seen such joy at something so simple come from a person, I’ve known no one else with such levity and lightness of spirit.

I suppose that’s pretty emblematic, Papa loved puns and word games of all sorts. For as long as I can remember he complained that the NYT Sunday crossword was simply not a challenge, he ruthlessly completed every crossword book we could throw at him. In pen! I could never think of a clever enough riposte or claim victory in a contest of puns against him, never, not once, and I promise that I have him to thank for my skill in such things.

My most recent, truly vivid memory was at Christmas last year, I think. We were all milling about waiting on dinner to be ready and Papa, seated at the head of the table as if holding court (as always) looked at me and said, “So, Tim, did I ever tell you about the time I met Harry Truman?” He then proceeded to tell me the story, it involved his uncle Dorsey Hardeman and was really quite intriguing, but he told it in the most nonchalant, factual, way. In a way that made it obvious he wasn’t bragging because he kind of didn’t care but thought the story was interesting.

That’s the way it always was with Papa, for a man so admirable and accomplished, he didn’t particularly enjoy being the center of attention. He always made time to listen, to understand, to probe. He was deeply curious about the world, about the people in it, and about those around him. He always made time to listen, to advise, to read a story to an excited little boy or, better still, to teach that boy to read himself. He was a great man, and the closest thing I had to a hero. So goodbye, Papa, potato, but most of all, thank you.

Love always,
Tim

PS: Your dear friend Steve Clack got them to write a very nice obituary. I wish you could’ve seen it, you’d be so proud.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, September 18th, 2007 at 2:03 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.