I don’t normally post things this personal, but perhaps I should start, seeing as how I haven’t had the time to come up with anything creative for this blog in quite a while. We just celebrated Memorial Day a couple of days ago, which was particularly special because family members that I had not seen in forever showed up. I mean like, the aunts and first cousins that my husband, whom I have been with for thirteen years, just met for the very first time. We ate, we talked, we kissed and hugged, we laughed and we played. It was such a lovely time that I am still sitting here smiling about it days later.
My smile is fading a tiny bit though, as I remind myself just what Memorial Day is all about in the first place; the commemoration of those who died in military service. Because I dislike war but have the upmost respect for soldiers and others in the military, I tend to have conflicting emotions when I think about those who serve – a mixture of pride, humility and sadness. Now that I think about it, that is the same way I feel when I think about all of those close to me that have died.
I’d like to take a moment for those that I have lost.
First I’d like to observe all of those men and women who gave their lives for this country. I did not know any of you personally, but I know that you are brave and disciplined and worthy of honor. May you at last rest in peace.
Second, is my aunt Sharon. Everybody used to call you Sharow, though I have no idea why. Maybe your younger brother pronounced it that way and it stuck. Or maybe it was because you used to fuss a lot – you were always in a “row” with someone. You were only four feet and nine inches tall, but your attitude was ten feet tall, at least. When you are that petite with five older siblings and one younger brother, I guess you have to compensate somehow.
I remember you being a walking contradiction, a woman of delicate beauty, grace and sweetness who had a will of iron, high expectations and strict discipline. You were not in the military but you had to fight often. You fought as a single, working mother, you fought a man who you loved like a woman loves a man, but he wanted to fight you like a man fights a man, you fought the doctors who told you that it was “normal” for a woman to bleed so much throughout pregnancy – though you lost that battle in the end when you died just three days after labor.
You were not even thirty years old yet when we lost you, Sharow. You still had so much fight left in you. I will never forget your enormous energy.
The last is my paternal grandfather, Granddaddy Rueben. You weren’t in the military, but you were still a soldier in my eyes. A supportive husband for thirty years, a doting father of seven children, a loving grandfather of twelve, a gentle great-grandfather and a hardworking man who was still employed when you died at the age of seventy-one from diabetes. You worked hard and long hours to support your family and when you passed you had nothing – no house in your name, no mentionable savings, not even a working automobile. But you fought to make sure that even though they lived in poverty, your family never felt like it, and you shared the wealth of your spirit with all that you touched.
“Hello beautiful! Granddaddy loves you, baby!” is how you used to greet me.
“You are such a smart and decent young lady. Granddaddy is so proud of you, baby. Stay sweet for me, you hear?” is how you used to say goodbye.
Thank you granddaddy for being a positive role-model, for showing me what a gentleman is supposed to be like and for raising my daddy to be the great man that he is.
I miss you.
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