After reading my sophomore effort at memorializing Granddaddy (see previous post, “A Tenth Grader’s Grief”), I was struck by several things about my fifteen-year-old self. First, I seem rather self-aware. Like many teens, I could be highly dramatic and overly emotional, and I knew it. Reading my words, though, I can recall how strong and real those feelings felt at the time. When I poured out my heart, aided by the sappiest music available, I cried true, hearty tears. Another striking observation is that I considered family essential. Though I often tried to keep them at a distance, my parents, siblings, grandparents, and other extended family members kept me grounded while still letting me search for myself. I’m sure there were times when I pretended not to care about any of them, but they were and still are my lifelines. The final thing that struck me while reading this early essay is that this event, losing Granddaddy, marked my first big step toward disillusionment. I don’t know if we’re all born this way, but I certainly had my fair share of naivete about life. Crises existed, but in my rather small world they were limited to a fall-out with a friend, an argument with my sister about her not staying on her side of the room, hurt feelings when a boy didn’t like me, or frustrations with the way my parents dealt with me. When Granddaddy waged his war with cancer, bits and pieces of my wall of safety begin to crumble. And when he died, an entire section fell away.
I’ve since learned, of course, that as adults we must recreate the illusions and ideals through the beauty that remains in the world–nature in its most glorious state, music so lovely it takes your breath away, fiction that envelops you and carries you away to another time or place or person, your child’s giggles, the unique and wonderful smell of your spouse’s hair. I’ve learned, too, that family is indeed essential, but that it can consist of more than blood relatives. Some of my closest family members continue to be my grandparents, parents, and siblings, but to them I’ve added numerous loyal companions. Finally, I’ve learned that it’s okay to have overly emotional and dramatic moments, as long as they don’t consume all your moments.
Today, when I think of Granddaddy, I regret that he isn’t here to see his grandchildren get married and have their own children, that he isn’t able to keep mentoring his four daughters, that he had to leave his wife’s side. But I also see an old-time country store not a mile from a railroad crossing. In the back, expertly slicing enormous red hunks of meat, stands my Granddaddy. “Hey, Toochie!” he exclaims, then directs me toward the registers at the front, inviting me, as he always does, to choose one piece of candy. Heading from his store to visit Grandmama in the next-door post office, I chew on one of several chunks of banana Laffy Taffy enjoyed at Granddaddy’s expense.
I see, too, a big house whose every room remains solidified in my memory, where I and several cousins shared laughs, tears, good Southern food, talent shows, movies in the basement, scary stories in the dark by the fireplace, the best hide-and-seek spots. I see a yard whose vast expanse offered opportunities to act out scenes from Little House on the Prairie, play a variety of ballgames, hunt dozens and dozens of Easter eggs, climb a dogwood with branches that provided the perfect horseback ride, roll down a hill covered with crunchy leaves, and pick muscadines, sucking out the slimy insides and chewing on the sweet peelings. Granddaddy and Grandmama created and sustained that environment for all of us, and I will always treasure that they lived only a few miles down the road.
I remember stories of how Granddaddy, before he was Granddaddy, defended the black people of his community in his own quiet ways. Whether they were customers or employees at his store, he tried to treat them no differently than he treated the white folks. I didn’t live during that incredibly difficult period, but I am aware enough of the racial issues still pervading the South that I have great respect for how tough this must have been for him. My greatest lesson from him is that people are people, regardless of their origins (and often because of them).
This man, whose photos sit on my dresser where I can see him often, will always be a significant part of who I am. I’m grateful that he lived life so fully.
