It has been a sobering week. Flash back to Friday, Mar 6, almost two weeks ago. The wind picked up and the temperatures dropped as the day progressed and the phone just kept ringing as we tried to finish the typical chaotic Friday in spring. The day dragged out beyond normal hours as we had to do a fetotomy on a sweet donkey with a dead colt, far too large for her to deliver. I got home to a house full of company, my wonderful in-laws and my wife’s granddaddy were in for the evening to check on progress at the farm and have dinner with us. He is my wife’s Grandaddy, yes, and he has a first name, but I call him Grandaddy like everyone else in the family. After a quick shower, we were off. The trusses were supposed to have been installed at the clinic that week, but weather prevented it. Grandaddy said, “I was really hoping to see those trusses.” I responded with, “Well I guess you’ll just have to come visit us again, huh?” He grinned, “Oh yes….You’ll get it.” After a cold farm visit, we had dinner at Holly’s Deli. Meg’s grandaddy has a simple palate, but loves the ham and Swiss sandwich and fire-roasted tomato soup at Holly’s. We finished dinner and said our goodbyes in the bitter cold parking lot, snow blowing all around.
On Wednesday, now one week ago, we got a call that Grandaddy fell off the roof. Grandaddy is 92 years old, but not your typical fellow. He still mows with a tractor and drives his sisters (ages 88 and 96) to their doctors appointments. He lives alone, drives himself to the oncologist for his immunotherapy infusion to keep his lymphoma in control. He is a fixer of all things. A retired machinist by trade, and raised on a farm. He has lived. He knows a good deal about most things.
What was he doing on the roof? Well, as my mother-in-law puts it, “he was on the roof because we have told repetitively not to get on the roof.” He was fixing a shingle he saw that needed repair on the home of one of his granddaughters.
He was rushed to the hospital, then flown to a trauma center where he received excellent and compassionate care. Following emergency surgery, he deteriorated, and passed away peacefully with his children by his side.
I’ve only known Grandaddy for 13 years. He referred to me as “Nebo” when my wife and I first started dating. Nebo is the little community I am from and Grandaddy had fond memories of going to Nebo in his younger days. Grandaddy and I could carry a conversation with no problem. He had a connection to agriculture from his upbringing and was interested in my adventures as a large animal veterinarian. “Have you ever stuck one of those magnets down a cows throat?” “Do you got to go on an emergency”, he’d ask when we were leaving. He would save clippings from farm magazines to show me interesting pieces of equipment for sale. Grandaddy thought of me when he saw certain things, just as he did with his children and grandchildren. That. That is important. It is a high compliment for someone to think of you in that way. And for Grandaddy, it was an act of love.
When my wife and I bought the farm a few years ago, Grandaddy had to make a visit to see the place. We set up an iPhone so we could add him to a shared iCloud photo album to post frequent updates from the farm. He would call just minutes after we shared them to ask questions and let us know he saw them – and it just made us smile. He never posted a comment, but he did eventually learn how to “like” them.
When we had the timberland harvested, we took him up on the hill of the homesite to see the view and check out the logging equipment. He was like a kid in a train shop. He told me all about his brother who used to log and how he would’ve loved to see this new modern stuff. He was just as excited to see my new tractor and sit up in the cab. He was excited to see my vet truck rig. “Hey, now that’s alright.” That was his stamp of approval.
Both of my grandfathers have passed away, and while I’m sure they loved their grandchildren, it just was not as warm and evident as the way Grandaddy interacted with his grandchildren, and yes, the red-headed kid from Nebo who married his granddaughter. I am so grateful that my wife has been able to stay so close with him after we moved back to the mountains 7 years ago, just 30 minutes from Grandaddy’s. She drives to Hickory to have her car serviced, just so Grandaddy can come pick her up and go to lunch and visit the Sam’s Club for some bulk items. On one of her more recent visits, when the car service was a bit involved and pricey, she said they went back to the house and they both fell asleep watching TV in the living room.
His funeral was hard. The church sits just yards away from the home where his fatal injury happened, and just a small field away from his home. I’ve never been at that church for any event without Grandaddy. I’ve gone through the stages of grief with my wife, but it just didn’t feel right without him, not denial, just “off”. I found myself just staring at the casket, waiting for it to seem real, waiting to run into Grandaddy in the crowd as if we were at someone else’s funeral.
We had such relief knowing that he never experienced immense pain. He interacted with the emergency personnel before losing consciousness, telling them he was 92 years old (much to their surprise), and complaining of only some pain on his side. The man was tough as nails. A man with calloused hands and a firm handshake. A salt of the earth, not-my-first rodeo, hard working, independent, innovative, fixer. He passed away with roof tar on his hands doing things exactly as he wanted. He did not wither away or have to give up his independence or rely on anyone for his care. His death, though unexpected and tragic, was fitting of his personality and likely as he would’ve wanted.
So we carry on, knowing he is reunited with the love of his life. I do believe angels are with us in spirit. I’ll look for signs of his approval as we continue working on our farm, office, and planning for a house on the hill one day. I am grateful to have met such a wonderful soul. I’ll smile when I see things that remind me of him, laugh when I remember things he would say, and be grateful for the joy he brought in life and brings now, in memories.
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