In Peace May You Rest

I’m thirty-seven.  Well, for a couple of more months, at least.  There are things that I’ve accepted about myself at this age.  Things I don’t expect to change, but would welcome change if it came along.  I procrastinate, but I get things done.  Just give me a deadline, let me start the night before, and I promise you’ll be pleased with the results.  I eat like a toddler.  It’s true.  My daughter once asked if I’d rather eat a pickle or cottage cheese.  I don’t even want to look at a picture of either one.  I wish that “or be put in a barrel of crap-covered rattlesnakes” was an option, because I’d absolutely choose the barrel.  And I avoid situations that make me cry.  I don’t read sad books, I won’t see sad movies, and I make incredibly inappropriate jokes at extremely inappropriate times as an attempt to stave off tears.

Alas, life isn’t all poor jokes and rainbows.  There are times I have to “adult up,” and I’m not good at it.  One of those moments happened early this week.  My Grandpa Isely died Sunday morning.  I’ve been crying for three days, and tomorrow is the funeral, so more tears will follow then.  No one ever wants me at a funeral.  I cry louder than I should, and I’ve yet to figure out a way to stop it.  Even if I’m not close to the departed, one look in the direction of their surviving family, and I’m gone.  Just pass the Kleenex, because some sordid salty tear and snot recipe will be mixing on my freckled face.  As such, my plans for tomorrow include things to take my mind off the event at hand and, hopefully, minimize snot.  I plan on: counting pews, counting whatever the ceiling is made of (beams? tiles?), reading the memorial pamphlet backwards (which is not nearly as sad as reading it correctly), and sharing Kleenex with my son, who I’ll be hugging tightly.  Bless his heart, he’s just as emotional as his wreck of a momma.  And he fights for the underdog, just like his Grandpa Isely did.

Sunday night, I had to “adult up,” again.  Sunday night, I sat in my parents’ living room and wrote Grandpa’s obituary.

In the obituary, I wrote:  “William Arthur Isely, Sr. of Morrilton passed away.”  I wanted to write, “My Grandpa died.  My Dad’s hero is gone.  Grandma lost her soulmate, the guy she married at sixteen and made a family, a life with.  The man whose hand she’s held in bed at night for sixty-five years.  He’s gone, and I still want him here.”

I penned that he’s survived by “eleven great-grandchildren.”  I wanted to write, “Six-year-old Ava had an uncanny love for Grandpa Isely.  She stopped several times a week to pray for him and only him.  She loved to kiss his hand, hear his stories, and visit him daily when he was a patient at the local hospital.  How many six-year-olds connect that way with people eighty-seven years their senior?  Thank you, Grandpa, for loving my kids.”

The obituary says, “Mr. Isely was born in Morrilton.”  I should’ve said that’s where he was called to his eternal home, too.  In his home, surrounded by his family, within one hundred feet of where he was born.  He’ll be buried tomorrow about a hundred yards away from his house.

I wrote, “At 22 he joined the military, where he was a decorated Marine Raider who fought in the South Pacific during World War II.”  I should’ve said, “Grandpa was a total bad ass.”  Turns out newspapers don’t print some of the vocabulary that runs through my mind, but Grandpa wouldn’t have flinched at it.  He knew it was true.  In the Marines, they called him “Lightning” because he was so fast.  The chances of survival in his specific situation were slim, but he made it back to the States.  In his bedroom is a framed Bible.  The Bible has a hole in it where mortar struck him.  The Bible was in his pocket, over his heart, during the attack.  God knew Grandpa had more work to do here.

The obit says, “Isely built more than 2,300 houses.”  It should’ve said, “and he hired the people who needed jobs to do it.”  He hired African-Americans when people didn’t.  He hired people that he had to bail out of jail.  He knew what it was to struggle, and he didn’t want anyone to have to.  There was always room for one more at his table, a lesson he learned during the Depression from his mom, “Other Momma.”

Obits just don’t cover a life.  They say who passed, but they don’t say who passed.

In the obit, I wish I could’ve let people know that Grandpa was hilarious.  And his kids are hilarious.  Often inappropriate, but so funny nonetheless.  I remember sharing a meal with Grandpa at the Olive Garden twenty years ago.  I was holding my legs together as tight as I could; I was positive that I was about to pee myself because I couldn’t stop laughing.

I should’ve let people know that he could read the Bible one minute and cuss a blue streak the next.  He said the Lord’s Prayer every day.

I should’ve written about his love for aprons, penchant for wearing Christmas socks year-round, the skinny chicken legs he was so proud of.

I should’ve told our Christmas story, how every year the entire family gathers at Grandma and Grandpa’s home for Christmas Eve.  When I was little, my dad would take us to town after dinner.  We’d look for Rudolph as we drove, and we’d inevitably find him, his red nose lighting up the sky beside the radio tower.  When we’d return, Santa would’ve delivered presents enough to crowd their large family room.  Christmas Eve at the Isely home made me believe in magic.

And people should know that whenever we spent the night at Grandma and Grandpa’s, we’d wake to Grandma cooking bacon. The smell wafted from the kitchen throughout the house, and to this day the smell of bacon makes me smile as I’m brought back to memories in their home. We’d sit at the breakfast table with our grandparents, and Grandpa would point out the window.  “Look!  A squirrel!” he’d say, and as we looked away, he’d sneak bacon off our plates.  We still play, “Look!  A squirrel!” in my home.

And Ava still tells his stories, the stories he told her, to her baby dolls.  And Xay still pictures him cooking beans in the kitchen.  And Tyler longs to visit with him, to have another “man talk” one more time.  And I miss my strong, loyal, hilarious, bad ass Grandpa.

I’ll see you soon, Grandpa.  Until then, may you rest in peace.  You deserve to enjoy the bounties of Heaven.