December 16, 2005
Painful Memories
I can't believe how much it still hurts to think of the day that my grandfather died. I'll never forget the night before, hauling ass behind the ambulance at 100+ mph, worried, losing my fucking mind, my mom, stepdad, and uncle crying right next to me, the restless night in the waiting room, and the feeling of dread that devoured me alive.
And the fucking memories...riding in his old Silverado truck with him around the farm and to the hardware store, staying up late and watching westerns while eating popcorn, him teaching me how to shoot, how to box, how to work machinery, how to build things, how to plant and tend to crops, how to fish, how to ride a horse, how to tend to livestock...
Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, Bob Wills, Willie Nelson...all those guys on the old 8-track and the old vinyl records that my grandparents collected.
I'll never forget him encouraging me to read more, to keep up with world events, to keep an open mind, to not let the government make my decisions for me, that all life is sacred and to never take more than you need, that religion can more harm than good, to believe in a true concept of right and wrong, to be honest, to be a genuinely friendly person to those who deserved it and to respect others, and to not condone a lack of respect from others.
Essentially, he taught me how to be who I am today. He taught me how to be a man. He taught me to be principled, but left me enough room to form my own convictions and to be my own person.
It hurts to see the man who taught you how to be a man wither away thanks to an unforgiving, unpredictable disease.
It's even more painful to watch the man who helped forge your personality and mentality struggle in a hospital bed. It's painful to grip his hand, to tell him that you love him, and to see him try his damnedest to say the words in return.
It's ten times worse to watch him take his last breath, to see his eyes roll back in his head, and to feel his hand clench yours for the very last time. The same hand that clasped a gun to show you how to aim and pull the trigger. The hand that clenched a fist and swung at a heavy bag. A hand that planted generations of trees and produce. The same hand that gripped a hammer and guided you on how to drive a nail. The same hand that taught you how to cast with a fishing rod. The same hand that turned pages of textbooks and pointed things out to you.
The same hand that guided you throughout your beginning years. The same hand that was there to catch you whenever you were close to falling.
If feeling the one person that you revered most in your life dying doesn't make you cry, you're made out of fucking stone, and you'll never feel anything. Ever.
And no matter how much you try to forget, the memory of his passing lingers there.
Despite all the negative connotations, despite the resulting depression, it finalizes those essential life lessons. You learn that life is ephemeral. That our time here on earth is meager, and that we should make the most of it while we can. We should teach others everything we can, we should laugh often and love much, we should live every day as if it were our last, and when we look back, we can see the path we forged. We can see our impact on the lives of others, no matter how minimal it may have been. A casual smile, a wave, a handshake, a hug....all of these things, while simple, aren't inconsequential.
We definitely shouldn't treat them as if they were inconsequential.
And despite all the sad memories, I buck up. I grit my teeth, narrow my eyes, and I think about everything that he taught me, that all his effort wasn't in vain. I'm a better person for having been raised by such a steady hand and a strong mind, and for that I'm eternally grateful.
I love you, Pop, and I miss you so much that sometimes it hurts.
Posted by Jake at December 16, 2005 12:19 AM
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