Yesterday my Grandaddy died.
Most of you that know me know that
I'm not an overly religious man. As such you won't be beaten to death with a religious ramble about heaven, hell, and what not. What we're here about is Grandaddy. Now at his funeral on Saturday there will be all kinds of talk about J.D., that's Grandaddy. There will be talk of what he was; a son, a brother, a husband, a father, and a grandfather. The thing is, this event will not pass without reminding everyone why he is Grandaddy. For him, that name takes on so much more than just being the male in our family who fathered my father. While I gave him the name of Grandaddy, he's been Grandaddy to so many more.
First, mom's family, it's large. 5 sisters, 14 cousins, 11 2nd cousins, and all of us close enough that we see and speak with each other constantly. All of these people, with no other relation to Grandaddy and his wife Granmamma than a marriage, were always welcomed in their home regularly. Each were always treated as my sister and I, and in turn they returned that love and caring as calling J.D., Grandaddy.
Growing up in the country the few kids that lived close could always be found at our farm. Summers were spent playing capture the flag, fishing, or swimming at the pool. No matter how filthy we wound up, not matter what fights we got in, no matter what trouble we got into, Chris, Jerad, T.J., Brooke, and Jeff all referred to him as Grandaddy. He took them all in with open arms, feeding lunch, giving hugs, pulling us around the farm on the "wild weasel" (home made sled) on the chance that it would snow, and putting everyone to work when we were old enough; and actually paying for the hours spent on his farm.
There are a ton of stories that you hear about Grandaddy, and they are never bad ones. It might be using the company car to go and pick up his employees in the parking lot when it was raining, constantly sneaking ice cream bars after one of his heart attacks even though the Dr. put him on a low fat diet, or keeping a few hundred dollars just lying around the house in case the alcoholic that worked for him got picked up on the weekend and needed to be bailed out, Grandaddy was always there. Even the newest edition to our family, my inlaw's daughter who's learning to talk would ask for a "sicle" after only her first time going for a swim at Grandmamma, and Grandaddy's, and getting a popsicle. That giving attitude, unending acceptance and love always shown through him.
Last night when he died, about 2 hours before, I sat down with him. The nurses said he could hear us if we spoke, but he had been unresponsive since 4am that morning, and I'm not sure if could hear me or not. It didn't matter though, we still talked. Through the last year plus of his illness, I never told him bye, and I wasn't about to do it last night. You see, I can't imagine a world without my Grandaddy in it. I told him I wasn't going to say bye, I told him thanks. Thanks for showing how to mend fences, string barbed wire, brand-dehorn-castrate and generally how to work cattle. Thanks for teaching me how to shoot a gun, tie a knot on a fishing hook, and how to drive not only a tractor but a stick-shift. Thanks for getting me the most unusual pet ever, a pygmy goat. Thanks for driving me all over East Texas, showing me the graves of my family so that I'd know the where I came from, and thanks for teaching me about the Indian Wars. Grandaddy was a "story teller" and if you want to know what kind, rent the Tim Burton film
Big Fish. It reminded so much of Grandaddy that I bought it for him as a gift a few days after I saw it.
There are a lot of times we disappoint those that love us. We'll see it in the eyes of our parents, siblings, husband/wife, boss, co-workers just about everyone; I never saw that in my Grandaddy. His unconditional love is something that I hope everyone can experience. It never wavered , had no opinion, it just was.
Ben Harper's new album
Lifeline has a song with a lyric that says, "You can't just say I love you, you have to live I love you", and Grandaddy did just that.
Before the men from the funeral home came in to take his body, Dad stood over the foot his bed, and began to tear up. I've never seen my Dad cry so I turned my back to him and looked away. Then I thought of what Grandaddy would do, give love. I walked to the foot of the bed, put my arm around him, and just gave him a squeeze, in silence. Dad said,"He was a good man", to which I replied, "He's the best". That was also the last thing I thanked him for during my talk. One of the last gifts I gave him was a knife to add to his collection. It was engraved with the message, "To my best man, Grandaddy", I thanked him for standing with me at my wedding.
No goodbyes Grandaddy, though we'll all miss you. Thank you, for your love.
