I lost my grandfather over a month ago and this is the first time I’m able to talk about it. I’ve cried a lot. Of course right when I found out but also at random times like when I’ve been at church specifically and a hymn comes up that reminds me of him. Sometimes the memories just flood back like right now when I’m listening to Tim McGraw’s ‘Humble and Kind’ painstakingly taping off my sons bedroom to be NY Yankees pinstripes. My idea but one of those “what was I thinking?!?” moments for sure. My grandpa was the definition of humble and kind. He was MY definition of humble and kind.
He was one of my hero’s in life but for no reason in particular. He enlisted early (lied about his age) as some did during that time in history and served in WW2 in the battle of Iwo Jima. He never talked about it but the scars were clearly in his memories forever. My grandfather was also a preacher for the majority of his life at a very small town in Crossville, TN; a place known for the world’s largest treehouse. The town is that small! It’s the kind of town that country songs are based on where the time seems to stand still but the breeze is always there and everyone knows you. In fact, everyone did know me even though I didn’t know most of them. My grandfather talked about me in almost every sermon and held my picture in his wallet in case anyone wanted to see his “Ashley”. I was perfect in his eyes no matter what I did.
I spent a week or two in the summer at his house growing up and looking back it felt like I spent my whole childhood there. It’s where I picked blackberries off the vine in his yard, ate more strawberries than my belly could hold from my grandma’s garden, where I got my first, and last perm, where I rode the church bus every Sunday while we drove around and picked up other people who couldn’t make it to church otherwise, and where I got to drink all the extra grape juice after church communion was over. The people who still go to that church will never understand the love that church held in my eyes. I knew every pew, every stained glass window, every bible study room and all the stairs. I remember the kitchen that was never empty. The feeling; the smells; the sounds; it’s all embedded in my brain. And for me, a person with very few memories that vivid, that’s a big deal. Looking back I hope my grandpa understood how special all those moments were for me. How much joy they brought to my life and how much it taught me growing up. I give my grandpa a lot of credit, probably too much, but I think he lit a fire in me for the slower pace of life long ago. I think deep down my love for the country and the farm stems from my experiences growing up in Crossville each summer with sweet tea in my hand and dirt on my face. I loved it. No one had to convince me to go visit and leave my family and friends each summer. I enjoyed that time. The peaceful country summers and time spent with my grandparents. There’s something to be said for sweet tea and dirty faces. There’s value and nostalgia, at least for me, in both and I hope my kids one day feel the same about their grandparents. My in-laws provide the sweet tea and dirt these days while I bark about how much sugar is in that tea or how tonight wasn’t even their bath nights but even I, the mom, realize the memories they’re making. The joy on my kids faces and the time spent with their family is well worth the sugar and extra bath time after it’s all said and done.
The truth about it is my grandpa left behind a wife who stood by his side no matter what, through Parkinson’s and all of its not-so-glorious side effects. They were inseparable. My grandpa always let my grandma make all of the choices and you could often hear him say “whatever she wants” as he referred to her for all decisions. He did this out of respect but more out of love. He loved my grandma with all he had and not once complained about her. Not ever. He’d joke every now and then or occasionally roll his eyes as most men do when women insist on yet another set of sheets or towels because we can never get enough of those. But he never complained!
Since my grandfather’s passing I can’t bring myself to call my grandma. It’s not because I don’t care or want to know how she’s doing, but it’s because I already know. I can’t bring myself to make that phone call and ask her how she’s doing. Ask her what’s new and if she’s made any good recipes lately because it would all be masking the pain I know she’s feeling. The longing in her heart for her other half in life. It’s too hard and I’m too much of a hormonal crying wuss. Not going to lie, I’ve broken down a few times just writing this post. However I don’t want to let that fear let me make the mistake of missing out on more memories or the chance to let my grandma know I still love and care about her now more than ever.
When a loved one passes I like to think that God is telling the family that He can take care of the deceased who joins Him in heaven and the rest of the family needs to come together for one another. I think it’s also a time of reflection to look back and appreciate all the moments you spent with them. It’s also a time to be kind to one another as everyone processes and heals differently. I’m healing a little more by writing this post and sharing my story.
Grandpa, I’ll always do my best to make you proud and will never forget you.
Grandma, I’ll call you soon, I promise!
Xoxo,
Ashley
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