Being Papa John

It looks like I’ll forever be known as Papa John. Not that the moniker is a bad thing. There could be worse, I suppose, but none come to mind really quickly. Maybe “Grandpa.” All my grandkids, however, know me as Papa John.

Karen’s boys, Brandon and Garrett, call me that. Even some of their cousins, and even Karen’s in-laws Rhonda and Tommy. Karen and Paul call me Papa John, too. Tammi’s daughters, McKenna and Kenedi, call me Papa John. Tammi and Kenny refer to me as Papa John.

And little Micah. Bless his heart. He’s only six months old and with Michael and Ora calling me that, he’s never heard anything else. So, as he grows up, he’s not going to know me as grandpa or anything else except Papa John.

When we were in San Antonio earlier this month, Tammi and the girls wanted to go to the park and play. They also wanted Cynthia and me to go along. While we were in the park and the girls were playing Cynthia and I went to pick something up for everyone so we could have a picnic. Just basic stuff, you know. Hamburgers, Fries, milkshake … in this case, the milkshakes were known as milkquakes!

Anyway, as we were sitting there enjoying our food another nice fella, with his two young sons, walked up and sat at the picnic table with us. One of the girls said something to me. “Papa John, could you …” The guy turned around and asked, “Are you the original Papa John?” I said, “Yep, that’s me.”

As I was playing with Kenedi, and growling like a monster (she loves for me to chase her and growl), a couple of other ladies were sitting on the bench and they jumped too. One of the ladies said, “That growl even scared me!” I hope I’m not that scary.

So, in answer to Jim Patterson’s comment on my last blog, “Thanks, I’m glad you like it, but no, I don’t deliver pizza.” Hey, maybe it will help me get a job doing just that! Maybe, just maybe, there is another upside to being Papa John. I’ve never checked papajohns.com to see if it has a picture of me.