My grandfather passed away today around lunchtime. He was a good and honorable man. Quiet and reserved most of the time, and as stiff and unbending as an oak. He was a man from a different generation. A generation where it was accepted and encouraged to rule the house with a firm hand and occasionally a peach-tree switch! But what I remember most about my grandfather was a heart full of love.
He was a man that loved his wife of sixty-one years so much that he worked well into his seventies in order to provide her with the luxuries he felt she deserved. I never once heard my grandfather complain. He just got up every morning at 4 a.m., had himself an egg for breakfast, and headed off to drive his semi-truck.
He was a man that loved his family so much that in addition to raising four children, he also raised four grandchildren and one great-grandchild. He didn’t have to do this. Lord knows it wasn’t his job! But he never thought twice when they needed a place to live. He just moved some stuff around in the spare bedrooms, so they’d have a place to put their bags.
He was a man that loved his garden. When I went over to see him, if he wasn’t outside lovingly coaxing some cucumbers to grow, then he was filling up a paper bag for me of the latest haul. He didn’t just love to work in his garden, he loved to experiment in it. He’d try growing all sorts of different plants. I remember the time he grew some “Bird’s Eye” peppers. Those things were so hot that they had every man in our family crying uncontrollably after just one bite! The ladies were smart enough to stay well away.
And if he wasn’t growing it, then he was cooking it. My grandfather loved to cook, and by golly he was really good at it! Stove, oven, pit…it didn’t matter…he was a master of them all. His slow-cooked beef jerky, smoked in the heart of two fifty-gallon oil drums, was practically world famous. And I know his nutless, banana nut bread definitely was! That was always a special treat for me. And after I managed to “hoover” my loaf of banana bread down in a single afternoon, I would sneak into the kitchen and start in on my step-father’s loaf. It was THAT good!
I never went hungry at my grandparent’s house. I doubt if anybody ever did! I used to joke that I would no sooner put my empty plate down, then my grandfather would come shuffling in from the other end of the house to ask me if I needed some more.
He was a man that always made everyone feel welcome. It didn’t matter what you had done in your past, where you came from, or who your family was…my grandfather would shake your hand, offer you something to drink, and get you a plate. He was always thinking about someone else.
No matter what was ailing him, he always greeted me with, “Son, how’re you doing?” Followed promptly by, “And how’s your wife?” The man had a million worries and responsibilities, and he wanted to know how my wife and I were doing! Every moment that I was there, I felt like he was genuinely glad to see me. There wasn’t a single time that I left his house that he didn’t tell me, “Ya’ll come back and see us!” I expected it, and I loved that about him.
I loved my grandfather. I don’t know that I ever told him that. I know he loved me, but I don’t think he ever told me either. I suppose our relationship wasn’t defined so much by words as by gestures. But it was enough.
It was enough.
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