I love you, Granddad.

I've started and deleted this post so many times. I'm not sure exactly what I want to say, or how I want to say it. I guess the thing to do is to start writing and see where I end up.

My grandfather died.

I could tell you all about how wonderful a man he was and how well he took care of all of us in his family, by using superlative words and eulogising the way one is supposed to when a loved one dies. I could tell you that he owned a dry cleaning business, worked for State Farm Insurance, and for a decade in the 70's was the Mayor of a town in Mississippi (which is pretty darn impressive, if you think about it-- to serve and continually be reelected for ten years in rural Mississippi during that time). He served as a city alderman, and a deacon in the church, and he was the father of two, grandfather of five, great-grandfather of eight, and husband of one. He and my grandmother had been married for 60 years when she passed away a few years ago.

So that gives you an idea, but I think I'm only just starting to realize myself how good a man he was. We have these phrases: "A stand-up guy," "devoted family man," "a mensh," that can describe him fairly well, but to me, it's not enough. It's not specific enough. I keep thinking of little stories, specific moments, that help to make up the picture that I have of him.

He was the first person I ever heard snore. And he could sniff sideways. He taught me to sniff sideways.

His secretary could always tell it was him coming in to the office because he would be whistling. Always.

He wore hats whenever he went outside.

He and Grandmom would give all of their kids and grandkids and great-grandkids money for Christmas, and it would be some serious cash, not the token $5 bill some kids get in their birthday cards. And, he would withdraw enough from the bank in the right denominations so that everyone got the biggest bills for their sum. I can just picture him going to the same teller at the same bank at the same time every year, asking for "8 $xx bills, 5 $xx bills, and 2 ..." Simply writing a check for that amount wasn't good enough. Cash, baby.

Every time I look at his picture, I can hear him chuckle.
(If it was a really good joke, he'd chuckle and say, " aww, shoot!" )

He was a change jingler.
Whenever we'd be at his house, getting ready for church or whatever, he was always ready first, and as it got closer and closer to the time when he thought we should leave (usually about 45 minutes earlier than anyone else thought we should leave), he would stand around and jingle the change in his pockets.
There was always change in his pockets.

When my grandmother's Azheimer's really started taking hold, she began to hallucinate that she was on a train. She would say to the conductor, or whomever she was talking to, that "My husband has the tickets." "My husband will take care of everything." That always stuck with me -- that even when she wasn't so clear on where she was, or who was with her, she knew that she was the wife of D.L. Cole, and that he would take care of her.

He called me "Sugah." (trans.: Southern for "Sugar." )

I'll miss you, Granddad.