My Most Unforgettable Character (youngsters:non fiction, 642 words)
Author: whistler	Added: Apr 11 2002	Views/Reads: 11875/0	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Every kid should have such a Grandpa.

Most every kid gets assigned this in seventh grade. Write an essay on
“My Most Unforgettable Character”. When it befell me, the subject was 
easy to select. 

Grandpa. 

He was then eighty-two, cooked, cleaned, and cared for a spouse nine
years his senior, tended the largest garden in town, and pastored 
churches 1,300 miles apart. A Dallas paper labeled him “the last of the 
circuit riders”. 

When construction began on a new church building, he stood in the Texas
sun and broke up the intruding sidewalk with a sledgehammer. 

And he did it all with a chuckle. 

I spent afternoons at his house, Mom dropping me off as she returned to
work. If he was in the house I had him to myself. If he was outside, he 
was already surrounded by neighborhood urchins. If you didn't know, and 
you were driving past you might think he was passing out candy. He 
wasn't. Something better. Himself. 

At four he had tagged along to school with an older brother, and no one
objected when he began to participate. So at ten he finished what was 
available, six grades. But he had access to a library, and his 
self-education continued. 

He started preaching when sixteen, though in 1885 sixteen was considered
grown. His church didn't salary ministers, so he was a lot of other 
things too along the way . . . farmer, schoolteacher, and timber mill 
operator. 

He could read Greek and Latin and translate as he read. So much was
committed to memory that if he had no topic when he entered the pulpit 
he would ask the congregation for requests. He would take whatever was 
suggested and expound on it for an hour, validated throughout with 
bible quotations, citing chapter and verse of course. 

Meeting you for the first time, he would praise God for his longevity
and health. He would laugh and say, “If I were to take you by the 
wrist, you couldn't pull away. “ Wally was a husky kid, built like 
Atlas. He didn't know he was supposed to humor the old gent. He tried 
to break away. When he couldn't, he tried harder. He went to his knees 
and surrendered. He had newfound respect for the elderly. 

We attended a tent meeting, the tent as large as a circus tent. You
know, the old fashioned ‘all day preaching and dinner on the grounds'. 
Grandpa filled two lunch plates, one for Grandma who sat near a support 
pole in her wheelchair. A gust of wind dislodged the tent and let it 
drop to the ground. Uncle Hugh fought his way beneath the canvas, 
fearing what he might find. What he found was Grandpa still holding his 
plate in one hand and holding the tent off Grandma with the other. “Are 
you okay?” uncle blurted out. Grandpa, nonchalant, replied, “Son if 
you'll hold this tent off us, I'll finish my pie.” 

He made his last trek to the churches in Kentucky when he was
ninety-one. By now he agreed to be driven on the twisting road that 
circled the mountain separating the two towns, no longer hiking 
directly over, suitcase in hand. 

He last preached when ninety-three, but continued sharing knowledge and
philosophy with the enduring, effervescent twinkle in his eye. 

He no longer ought to have candy, his physician warned, and Dad was
strict about it. But each time Grandpa visited with Truelove and me he 
left with pockets bulging, and the candy dish noticeably depleted. 
Truelove would ready herself for the call from Dad. 

It seemed harmless enough, but sure enough, I guess we finally ‘done him
in'. We laid him to rest on his ninety-ninth birthday. 

On Memorial Day and other occasions that call for a wreath on his grave,
Truelove and I are more likely to leave a sack of lemon drops. 

Sleep well, Grandpa. 


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