I suppose that it was inevitable they my Grandpa Little would one day die, but he had survived for so long that I began to think that he was immortal. When he celebrated his one hundred eighth birthday in November of 1996, he was as clear headed and bright as ever even though he had experienced some physical health issues during the summer. My brother Michael gave him a biography of Thomas Jefferson as a gift which he read immediately and spoke about at length when we visited him at Christmas time.
Sadly, Grandpa took a turn for the worse after the arrival of the new year. He became wheelchair bound and confused making it necessary to send him to a nursing home where professionals might care for him. When we visited he made clear that he was unhappy there but none of us were in a position to provide him with the twenty four hour attention that he needed. On one occasion he actually disappeared from the place where he had been staying and a search party had to comb to area to find him. He was eventually spotted wheeling himself down the road determined to go back home.
Our visits with him became more and more painful. He knew who we were but his mind was muddled. Sometimes he was not quite sure where he was. Other times he spoke of seeing relatives who were long dead. He was still cagey enough to stealthily beg my daughters to help him escape. We knew that his best days were gone but were still unwilling to consider that he might actually die.
One night I was awakened from a deep sleep, or at least it felt that way. I looked up to see my Grandma Minnie Bell sitting on the side of my bed. She smile beatifically at me and whispered that it was time for Grandpa to join her in heaven. She went on to explain that he was very tired. She knew how important he was to me and my brothers, but she insisted that he had done all that he could to guide us. Now it was his time to rest.
My dream state lulled me back to sleep immediately but in the morning I remembered my grandmother’s visit as vividly as if she had actually been there. Of course I understood that it was only a dream but when I got a call that afternoon to inform me that Grandpa had died I honestly felt that somehow my grandmother had actually communicated with me. Her spirit lived so close to my heart that I felt that she had wanted to comfort me. She knew how important Grandpa had been to our family.
We soon learned that the funeral home was not willing to bury our grandfather until someone paid the bills associated with a traditional lay to rest. Grandpa had no savings or insurance policy or assets that we might have used. Because there were dozens of cousins who were all doing fairly well I began to call them one by one to see what they would be willing to contribute to the cause. Sadly everyone except my brothers turned down my pleas for help in giving our grandfather a proper burial.
Since Grandpa had already bought a burial plot when Grandma died we only had to pay for the casket and the actual internment. The director of the place agreed to only needing a downpayment if someone was willing to sign a promissory note for the remainder of the cost. My brothers and i put our funds together and one cousin finally announced that she would sign the promissory note and get her sibling to help with what we still owed. After days of haggling, the funeral date was set.
There was a large crowd mostly of grandchildren and great grandchildren. By then all of Grandpa’s children had already died. One of my cousins played his guitar and another requested that we play Grandpa by the Judds. I totally lost it when I heard that melody and the words, “Grandpa, tell me bout the good old days…” I had spent my entire life listening to the tales from my grandfather’s memory. He was an extraordinary storyteller who had made our history come alive with humor and compassion. Knowing that I would never again see him settling back in his recliner and puffing on his pipe in preparation of regaling us with descriptions of events from his life was almost too much to bear.
Grandpa had indeed been our father figure after our Daddy died. He was a good man, well read and wise. He had known tragedy and hardship in his lifetime, but somehow he remained optimistic and grateful for the progress that humans had made. He believed in the goodness and ingenuity of people to carry us into the future. He understood the power of love and he cherished family above all else.
Grandpa often spoke of missing his “buddy,” our grandmother. She was the love of his life, the one with whom he had enjoyed so much fun. I imagined her welcoming him to heaven along with my father and my aunts. I even wondered if he might finally meet his mother who had died giving birth to him so long before. Somehow I understood that while I was grieving my loss, Grandpa was celebrating. He had given me and my brothers the gift of his love and wisdom. Now it was his time to be with the folks from the good old days. I knew that one day I would see him again.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 