When I was almost six my father was killed in a car accident. My mother, sister, brother and I left Oklahoma (Fort Sill) and went back to Stuart, Va.to live with with her parents. Shortly after that we moved to Shouns, Tn.were Grandpa built us a cozy four-room cinderblock house (Later he added another bedroom). We lived with them for eight years in that small community. I had a wonderful childhood and treasure every minute God gave me with my grandparents. I wrote this to honor and remember grandpa.
Blind in one eye, broken
nose, hearing mostly destroyed by the deafening roar of machinery at the plant,
constant ringing in your ears, broken ribs, shattered ankle held together by
metal pins, crushed pelvis, several fingers sacrificed to a sharp-toothed saw
blade: how many different times did the doctors say “he’ll never make it” and
gave you up for dead? Yet you defeated death at his game. Again and again, he
tucked his tail and slunk away head bowed – temporarily. No man wins forever.
You were a raging bulldog of
a man in your youth; a red-headed Irishman carousing, drinking, fighting,
living every moment as though it were your last and often nearly was. The worry
and sorrow you caused your father, mother, wife and children was a terrible
result of your wild oats. Oh, the terrible old man you could have become. I’m
glad he was never born.
For, I remember a gentle man;
the bulldog tamed. Flaming hair turned
sandy, eyes crinkled in smiles and a toothless grin that made me think Leprechaun’s
blood ran in your veins. I picture you with that old cap, ear flaps dangling, a
heavy plaid coat and work gloves as you shoveled coal into the bucket in the
shed. You fed the stove precisely, without mess, then sat in your chair and
read (from cover to cover numerous times over the years) your dearly loved
Bible.
I remember the day you piped
the water to the front yard from Aunt Elsie’s well. We carried it into the
house in buckets – cold and refreshing; we’d gulp big icy mouthfuls and then
hang the ladle on the nail. Every morning you’d wash your face in a metal pan
with water warmed on the stove. Occasionally, I watched in fascination as you
poured hot water into the cup and swished the brush around to make a soapy
lather, then slathered it on your face and shaved. You dried your smooth chin and slapped on
some Aqua Velva; a scent I love to this day.
We watched your favorite TV
shows on a small screened, black and white set with rabbit ears on top. Matt
Dillon, Festus, Miss Kitty and Doc. Ben, Hoss, Little Joe, Adam and Hop Sing. They
were part of our family. The good guys and the bad guys but Good always
triumphed over Evil. We watched them everyday when I got home from school. Good
times. I just didn’t realize it then.
You had a pocket knife. I was
always amazed at the tool it was. You cut up an apple, stabbed it and ate from
the point. You dipped it into a jar of Vick’s, coated it with a thick smear of
the clear ointment and put it on the back of your tongue where it melted and
trickled down your throat. It soothed your tickle-ly cough you said. It
repaired electric wires, was a screw driver, and picked out splinters from tiny
fingers. You were ahead of your time with your handy, dandy “cut and dice and
slice”; crafty and clever you were with that knife.
You weren't very
affectionate. I don’t ever remember crawling up on your lap and being comforted
or rocked to sleep. I never heard you say, “I love you” to me or any one of us
living in that cozy, four room, block house you built. But, I knew you cared
every time you’d ruffle my hair or give me an impish grin. It couldn't have
been easy to take in a widowed daughter and her three children at your age of
life. But, if you were resentful I never saw or felt it. As a matter of fact, I
think you were rather glad to have us.
I've heard the stories of
your life and marvel at your resilience and strength. You had staggering
hardships and hurts, some your own doing, others just horrible things life has
a way of throwing at us. I know losing your children was life changing for you.
We usually talked about how it affected Grandma without considering a man’s
emotions. All the guilt, sadness, anger, grief, longing for them that you held
close to the core of your heart, never sharing or allowing anyone to help you
carry that burden, at least as far as I ever knew, must have been a constant
hidden heaviness. Mom said that once, when you were at the nursing home you said
the children had been to see you. Maybe God did send them to you for a little
while knowing that you’d soon join them.
I can’t imagine what my life
would have been like without your calm influence and steady love and care. You
gave me a sense of security, a home, family, roots. Your love for God, which
came late in life but changed you completely, was always a testimony of
faithfulness, His and yours. Your constant reading of your Bible showed me just
how much you treasured God’s words, not just because you read them, but because
you lived them. You were a simple, quiet, contented, peace loving man by the
time I was a part of your life. I am so proud that part of me is you. I love
you, Grandpa – I miss you.
