🛠️ The Long Way Home: A Letter to My Papa 🚙

For Papa—

Your hands built homes, healed engines, and held my world steady.

You taught me more than how to fix things.

You taught me how to protect, how to love, and how to live with fierce compassion.

Your voice echoes in every act of kindness I offer,

every truth I speak,

and every fight I take on for those who cannot fight for themselves.

This is for you.

Always.

With all my heart,

Caleb

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I remember it like it was yesterday.

The sun was low in the sky, casting warm amber light that made everything feel softer, quieter. The porch boards creaked beneath us as we sat side by side—Papa in his usual worn denim jacket, and me, just trying to absorb the world in my own way.

The smell of motor oil still lingered faintly on his hands, mixing with the scent of freshly mowed grass. The crickets were starting to chirp. Somewhere in the distance, an engine hummed down the highway. For once, the world didn’t feel like too much.

Papa never asked me to explain myself. He didn’t flinch at my stimming or when I info-dumped about torque specs and horsepower. He just listened—and that made all the difference.

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There was a night in the garage I’ll never forget.

It was hot. The air was heavy, the tools warm to the touch, and I had grease on my cheek. We were working on bleeding the brakes, just the two of us, under the soft yellow lightbulb.

But my brain locked up. Sensory overwhelm hit hard. My hands trembled. Shame crept in.

Papa didn’t rush me. He didn’t scold me. He set the wrench down softly, looked at me, and said,

“It’s okay, kid. We’ll take a break. You’re doing fine.”

That was love. Not loud. Not forced. Just there. Steady. Present.

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Later, I found out he had gotten me an old S10 pickup to work on—not just so I could learn to drive, but to teach me how to understand something completely. That truck became the core of my special interest.

In that garage, surrounded by the sounds of ratchets and the smell of oil, I found a place where my autistic brain could thrive. No judgment. Just curiosity, problem-solving, and pride in progress.

Papa gave me that space.

He gave me me.

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One of my favorite memories of us is a road trip in his old ’89 Ford Ranger.

We were driving home from Tennessee to Florida, just the two of us. The rest of the family was in the van behind us. The truck rattled like an old man clearing his throat, and I loved every note of it.

Papa tried to outsmart Atlanta traffic, so we ended up scaling one of the tallest peaks in the Blue Ridge Mountains—tight curves, no guardrails, nothing but sky. My stomach did flips, but Papa? Cool as ever. Hand on the wheel, window down, like the road bent to him.

Eventually, we dead-ended at a bank parking lot in the middle of nowhere.

He looked out the windshield and said,

“Well, hell.”

I laughed. For real. Hard. That whole trip—backroads, detours, gas station snacks—wasn’t efficient, but it was perfect. It gave me time with him. Unfiltered, unrushed. Time I didn’t know I’d need so badly later.

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Papa taught me how to fix things. But he also taught me how to be steady when life isn’t.

When I get overwhelmed now, I remember that trip. The winding mountain roads, the hum of the engine, the feeling of being with someone who got me without needing words. He gave me that safety, and I carry it like an anchor.

He showed me that it’s okay to take the long way home.

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Now, I try to pass on what he gave me.

I pay attention to quiet kids. The ones who fidget or info-dump about trains or Pokémon or history. I ask them to tell me more. I let them stim. I don’t demand eye contact. I meet them where they are.

Because someone once did that for me.

I show up for my friends, especially those navigating disability, identity, or trauma. I don’t always have the right words, but I can be there. Steady. Present. Real.

Papa didn’t teach through lectures. He taught by being. And now I carry that forward—not just as a memory, but as a legacy.

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Dear Papa,

Thank you for all the wonderful years you gave me. For your stories, your quiet strength, and your unwavering belief in me.

You saw me when I couldn’t see myself.

You loved me without trying to change me.

You gave me the tools to build a life—not just with wrenches and oil, but with justice and gentleness.

I promise you: I will protect the ones who need it. I will listen, love, and lead with my whole heart. Just like you did.

And when life gets hard, I’ll remember the mountain roads, the hum of the Ranger, and your calm voice saying,

“We’ll get there.”

Love always,

Caleb