The starter pistol fired and the boom echoed. The young runners readied themselves on the starting line of their regional cross country meet. The 5-minute warning to the race's start. Thin legs dancing quickly. Warming up in the cold Oregon rain. Dots of mud spattered on their hind ends. Restless anxiousness. My 11-year old son Conner among them all.
My cell phone rang. The screen displays “Grandad”. I knew this call. My mom and dear Ethel on the other end. Crying, sobbing. Grandad died. His body now limp, at peace and with the Lord. 83-years of life gifted to this man who I knew as “Grandad”. To most he was Mac, to his parents, brother and sisters..... “Bo”, to his grandmother and his birth certificate, St. Elmo.
The starter pistol fires again. 100 pairs of legs go clamoring, dodging puddles, jockying for position. A display of life in its extreme. I standd in the mist amid the thunderous parental calls: keep you pace, make your move, take that hill! Feeling alone despite the bombardment of life.
3000 miles away Grandad's spirit lifts. No longer is he confined to his aged and ailing body that had served him so many years. For now Grandad...you are everywhere. With Jesus. I call out in only a way that a spirit, an angel, would know--- Hey Grandad, are you there? You're free now! You made it to the other side!.... To see your mom and dad, your brothers and sisters, including your brother Bill who died on D-day...who's death over 60 years ago still brings you tears.
Grandad, I'll always remember the times we had together. As a young boy I'll remember the pedaling “hot rod” you bought for me with that attached orange flag so cars could see me. That skinny white flag pole was too long so you cut it down to size. You gave me the cut short end and colored the end with a black marker to make it look like the ash on the end of a cigarette. Mom and dad weren't impressed.
Letting me sneak a sip of your beer and me pretending that I liked it. The little dogs you and Nana (Netti) always seemed to have. You pretending to be a drunk driver in that big boat of a car you use to have. “Grandad! Be a drunk driver”, I'd say. You'd laugh and swerve the wheel from left to right, back and forth. I'd giggle and laugh...all of course while standing in the back seat (this was about 1975 and I don't think they had seatbelt laws back then).
I remember how you and Nana would spoil my sister and I. We really had it made. In Phoenix you lived just a few blocks away. This was a kid's dream. My mom would call you--- “Ricky's headin' your way”, she'd say. I'd pedal fast on my little yellow bike. The kind with hard rubber wheels that don't need air. With the pedals that could go backwards without braking. You and Nana would wait at your front door watching for my approach. Faces smiling.
I remember playing with your vice grips. It seemed like minutes, but I'm told that in adult time it was for hours and hours.
Then a divorce. Loading the moving truck quickly after school one day with my dad. Whisked away. Gone. No more memories made. Clinging only to those old ones just said. Repeating them mindfully, over and over so as not to forget.
About 25-years later, thanks to Yahoo People Search, I was back home. Sweet home Alabama. My mom, Nana (Sister), Grandad, and Granny (or Grandmama) too! Alive...still alive! What a treasured gift. With my wife Darby and our 1-year old twins, Conner and Keenan in tow, I was able to reconnect with you Grandad...and all of you.
The past years with you have been cherished. I've relished meaning in our discussions as well as just sitting with you and enjoying your presence. Watching cops and eating boiled peanuts. I've etched the sound of your voice into my mind...”Heyyy Rick 'em”, “Hey Rickaroo”, “This world's goin' to pot!”, or “Can you believe that joker?!” (Joker was his word of choice when referring to bad guy on Cops). Or on my last trip here with my 7-year old Kyler, Grandad took us to Michael's pond to go fishing. When a cottonmouth started to slither in towards my son I yelled, “snake!”. My son's legs running in the air so quickly that his body appeared to hover before his feet touched the ground. And grandad replying from a distance, “I'll get my gun”. I had no idea he brought a gun or even had one for that matter. He handed me this little pistol, wrapped up in a handkerchief. It probably hadn't seen the light of day in 30 years. But it worked and we took care of that Joker!
I won't forget is how we ended all of our long distance phone conversations, “I love you” or “I love you too”...depending who said it first. We had a true bond. We all knew he was old we treated every conversation as though it could be our last. Only two days before he died, he reminded me with a weak voice, “I love you Ricky”.
Grandad you were meticulous. Everything you owned had its place. You took care of your possessions, your daughter and your wife for so many years. I'd call your house and if you didn't answer I'd call Nana's (Sister's) room at the nursing home where you'd always answer. You stood by her side until the end when you were no longer able. Your life of servitude, your loyalty to your wife and daughter. All characteristics of a truly good man.
I had so many good times with you. A few years ago you drove me to the cemetery to show me yours and Nana's newly purchased grave site and tombstone. We circled and drove around trying to find it. After a awhile I asked, “Is there someone that'll know where it's at if you're gone?” He laughed and said, “Well I'll sure know where it's at!”
Grandad, you've completed this race course called life. The hustle, the buzz, the energy of living. My son and all those runner's finished their race. Muddy, sore and tired. Just as you did Grandad. I love you.
My cell phone rang. The screen displays “Grandad”. I knew this call. My mom and dear Ethel on the other end. Crying, sobbing. Grandad died. His body now limp, at peace and with the Lord. 83-years of life gifted to this man who I knew as “Grandad”. To most he was Mac, to his parents, brother and sisters..... “Bo”, to his grandmother and his birth certificate, St. Elmo.
The starter pistol fires again. 100 pairs of legs go clamoring, dodging puddles, jockying for position. A display of life in its extreme. I standd in the mist amid the thunderous parental calls: keep you pace, make your move, take that hill! Feeling alone despite the bombardment of life.
3000 miles away Grandad's spirit lifts. No longer is he confined to his aged and ailing body that had served him so many years. For now Grandad...you are everywhere. With Jesus. I call out in only a way that a spirit, an angel, would know--- Hey Grandad, are you there? You're free now! You made it to the other side!.... To see your mom and dad, your brothers and sisters, including your brother Bill who died on D-day...who's death over 60 years ago still brings you tears.
Grandad, I'll always remember the times we had together. As a young boy I'll remember the pedaling “hot rod” you bought for me with that attached orange flag so cars could see me. That skinny white flag pole was too long so you cut it down to size. You gave me the cut short end and colored the end with a black marker to make it look like the ash on the end of a cigarette. Mom and dad weren't impressed.
Letting me sneak a sip of your beer and me pretending that I liked it. The little dogs you and Nana (Netti) always seemed to have. You pretending to be a drunk driver in that big boat of a car you use to have. “Grandad! Be a drunk driver”, I'd say. You'd laugh and swerve the wheel from left to right, back and forth. I'd giggle and laugh...all of course while standing in the back seat (this was about 1975 and I don't think they had seatbelt laws back then).
I remember how you and Nana would spoil my sister and I. We really had it made. In Phoenix you lived just a few blocks away. This was a kid's dream. My mom would call you--- “Ricky's headin' your way”, she'd say. I'd pedal fast on my little yellow bike. The kind with hard rubber wheels that don't need air. With the pedals that could go backwards without braking. You and Nana would wait at your front door watching for my approach. Faces smiling.
I remember playing with your vice grips. It seemed like minutes, but I'm told that in adult time it was for hours and hours.
Then a divorce. Loading the moving truck quickly after school one day with my dad. Whisked away. Gone. No more memories made. Clinging only to those old ones just said. Repeating them mindfully, over and over so as not to forget.
About 25-years later, thanks to Yahoo People Search, I was back home. Sweet home Alabama. My mom, Nana (Sister), Grandad, and Granny (or Grandmama) too! Alive...still alive! What a treasured gift. With my wife Darby and our 1-year old twins, Conner and Keenan in tow, I was able to reconnect with you Grandad...and all of you.
The past years with you have been cherished. I've relished meaning in our discussions as well as just sitting with you and enjoying your presence. Watching cops and eating boiled peanuts. I've etched the sound of your voice into my mind...”Heyyy Rick 'em”, “Hey Rickaroo”, “This world's goin' to pot!”, or “Can you believe that joker?!” (Joker was his word of choice when referring to bad guy on Cops). Or on my last trip here with my 7-year old Kyler, Grandad took us to Michael's pond to go fishing. When a cottonmouth started to slither in towards my son I yelled, “snake!”. My son's legs running in the air so quickly that his body appeared to hover before his feet touched the ground. And grandad replying from a distance, “I'll get my gun”. I had no idea he brought a gun or even had one for that matter. He handed me this little pistol, wrapped up in a handkerchief. It probably hadn't seen the light of day in 30 years. But it worked and we took care of that Joker!
I won't forget is how we ended all of our long distance phone conversations, “I love you” or “I love you too”...depending who said it first. We had a true bond. We all knew he was old we treated every conversation as though it could be our last. Only two days before he died, he reminded me with a weak voice, “I love you Ricky”.
Grandad you were meticulous. Everything you owned had its place. You took care of your possessions, your daughter and your wife for so many years. I'd call your house and if you didn't answer I'd call Nana's (Sister's) room at the nursing home where you'd always answer. You stood by her side until the end when you were no longer able. Your life of servitude, your loyalty to your wife and daughter. All characteristics of a truly good man.
I had so many good times with you. A few years ago you drove me to the cemetery to show me yours and Nana's newly purchased grave site and tombstone. We circled and drove around trying to find it. After a awhile I asked, “Is there someone that'll know where it's at if you're gone?” He laughed and said, “Well I'll sure know where it's at!”
Grandad, you've completed this race course called life. The hustle, the buzz, the energy of living. My son and all those runner's finished their race. Muddy, sore and tired. Just as you did Grandad. I love you.
R.I.P.- 4/28/27- 11/20/10
