I may not remember what my Grandfather's birthday is, but I will always remember the day that he died. It was on Thanksgiving. We were all seated around the table preparing to eat, and the phone rang. My mother answered it, and passed it to my father. I do not remember my reaction. I do remember shortly thereafter attending the funeral. It was then, and only then, that I cried. I cried uncontrollably as I watched his casket sink beneath the earth. The finality of his passing hit me then, and only then. After that moment my mind shifted from being presently aware to a state of denial. I glossed over his death with a rationalization that he may be in another, hopefully better, place.
My grandfather brought law to Caldwell County North Carolina. When he died his casket was escorted by county police to his final resting place. I was nine years old, riding, for the first time in a limousine, watching as we passed through intersections blocked by uniformed police. They stood not as if they were commissioned to stand, but as if nothing could have prevented their attendance. It was if they were not being paid, but had suited up to stand in any available justifiably official place in order to salute our grand ancestor.
When my Grandfather began his career as a policeman, there were no radios. He had to call for backup from a telephone pole before going into any "sticky situation." He was a sheriff during the prohibition and he often wore a suit, as did his deputies. I have a picture of my Grandfather standing suited with his fellow lawmen and my Dad. My Dad was 10 years old, suited, along with the others. My Dad has told me stories about when he was young watching my Grandfather "take control" of a suspect in an elevator using a blackjack. That was the law back then. My Grandfather graduated from sheriff to Magistrate to Judge. He was, in his blood, meant to carry law to Caldwell County, NC.
As children, my brother and I would visit my Grandparents. My Grandmother would look over our shoulders as we played solitaire and add up the cards faster than I am able to even to this day. She was in her 80's then. She was a schoolteacher, and they lived in the same house they raised my father in (he was born in 1936) until the their final hours. They received their water from a reliable well, and the stove they used was purchased in the 1940's, and it had a compartment for burning wood. (after both my grandparents passed, my Dad cleaned it and it never worked again.) My Grandfather never spoke much, but watched my brother and I intently as we played. Silent as he was, he would always cry as we piled in the car to leave. My personal love for him grew out of this, and he remains to this day one of the most beloved persons in my life. On this day, despite my loss, I give thanks for his presence always. I thank this world for granting me such a wonderful ancestor. I thank this world for granting me someone that I know is in my blood, someone who I can be proud of, someone who I feel stood up when it really meant something, someone whose spirit will always live within me. I pray for his strength even though I do not believe in God. He was a wonderful example and it is on this day that I hope there is a heaven if only to know that someone as deserving as him, someone as self sacrificing as him will receive the final resting place that he deserves. Only then may the universe prove to possess the justice he sought to infuse it with.
While he was alive, I was young. I never knew (or knew how) to express my appreciation of him. I wish that I could speak to him now, not just in words, but in reverence. He showed that a true man has both strength and sensitivity. I owe so much of my life to his memory, and I know that he stood up as an example to his three sons, and their children. For him, on this day always, I will give thanks.
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