Grandaddy
I wish I had been there. It's been a long time since I received a phone call to let me know, and I had forgotten how much more it stings and how many regrets go along with them. I've tried to spend more time with him in the past few years, knowing it was coming, but no matter how much you try... somehow, if you're not there when it happens, you regret it and feel selfish for not having been there.
I haven't written much about Grandaddy over the years - not as much as I've written about my Mom or Dad or The Sperm-Donor or Gramma or Grandmuzzer.
Not because I loved him less, but because he was always the most taciturn, steadfast person in my life; he was the foundation rock upon which my life has been built, always, with the others creating the texture, colour, the warp and woof that go into the textile creation of day-to-day life. He and my Papa both were that way - I suppose because they were both traditional southern gentlemen: I never had any doubt in my mind that I was loved deeply by them in a way that defied the needs for words and expression.
When I was younger, I spent summers between he, Gramma, and Grandmuzzer and Papa. There was something about Grandaddy, though, that inspired a level of silent appreciation and a desire to please. Mama and Grandmuzzer showered me with praise for various accomplishments over the years, but it was Grandaddy's terse "I'm proud of you" that created a determination to earn it again. I haven't got stories of him like I do of the others, because we spent a lot of time being quiet and simply appreciating that we had one another.
I'm going to feel the loss of him very keenly for a very long time. I know, better than many, that he will always be with me as long as I remember him and hold his deep, quiet, molasses Orangeburg voice in my heart. But it doesn't ease the ache and personal recrimination of not having been there this week.
I will always hear his rumble in my mind when I achieve something, saying "That's real fine, 'Lizbuth, real fine." And I will know that all things I strive to surmount, I do because it would have pleased him, and know that he is with me.
I haven't written much about Grandaddy over the years - not as much as I've written about my Mom or Dad or The Sperm-Donor or Gramma or Grandmuzzer.
Not because I loved him less, but because he was always the most taciturn, steadfast person in my life; he was the foundation rock upon which my life has been built, always, with the others creating the texture, colour, the warp and woof that go into the textile creation of day-to-day life. He and my Papa both were that way - I suppose because they were both traditional southern gentlemen: I never had any doubt in my mind that I was loved deeply by them in a way that defied the needs for words and expression.
When I was younger, I spent summers between he, Gramma, and Grandmuzzer and Papa. There was something about Grandaddy, though, that inspired a level of silent appreciation and a desire to please. Mama and Grandmuzzer showered me with praise for various accomplishments over the years, but it was Grandaddy's terse "I'm proud of you" that created a determination to earn it again. I haven't got stories of him like I do of the others, because we spent a lot of time being quiet and simply appreciating that we had one another.
I'm going to feel the loss of him very keenly for a very long time. I know, better than many, that he will always be with me as long as I remember him and hold his deep, quiet, molasses Orangeburg voice in my heart. But it doesn't ease the ache and personal recrimination of not having been there this week.
I will always hear his rumble in my mind when I achieve something, saying "That's real fine, 'Lizbuth, real fine." And I will know that all things I strive to surmount, I do because it would have pleased him, and know that he is with me.