Grandad

I wasn’t as fortunate as my Shelby County, Kentucky cousins. I never got to know him as well as I would have loved to. He lost his life to illness when I was ten. My fathers father, “Papaw “ Dennie. But I remember his kindness, his smile. Kind hands that seemed so large to me as a little boy.

There was an interesting study done at UCLA many years ago. The summary was that communication between two people is really more of what we feel from the person we’re conversing with, and less about what is actually said. In my Kentuckian lingo that means communication is really “ more felt than telt”. I always felt care and kindness around my grandpa Dennie.

I remember once, as a wee lad, helping Papaw and my dad set tobacco. Old equipment, rusty and worn, but working as smooth as a sewing machine that day. Clanking and wheeling. The smell of the dirt and the gritty feel of the dust on my teeth are still with me. But more than that, though I can’t recall a word, the conversation between the two men stands out to me. My dad ( the greatest man I know) and his dad just talking together as we worked. A father and his son, discussing events past, present and future. Sober and serious and then chuckling and grinning. Making a good time out of hard work.

I remember most the feeling of that day. Like I was in the presence of goodness itself. I felt safe in a sheltered sort of way. A child can understand no better contentment than to feel protected. To me that day, these two men could’ve ruled the world. Years later Papaw was diagnosed with lung cancer.

One of the last times I saw my grandpa was at my uncle Pete’s farm. I knew he was sick at this time. Real sick. My brother and I had a great time with my cousins Dave Dennie and Kenny Dennie and we were chattering about it on the way home. But Dad was quieter than usual. One hand on the wheel, he looked out through the windshield of our 56 Olds. His eyes were a thousand miles down the road. I felt his sadness. When he died later on it was the first time I knew my dad to cry.

I want to always keep in mind that much of what my own grandsons will remember of me is what they feel from me. I am an imperfect man in ways too numerous to mention. But I hope that my boys can feel this, that I love them more than life itself . I thank God for them everyday. When its time to give this body up and memories is all that’s left of me, I hope that much of what I’ve said and done will be forgotten. But the love and appreciation I feel for those close to me, well I hope that last forever. Just like the memory of the man we called Papaw.