"My Granddaddy" (The Anniversary of His Death)

Foreword:

 

It is very late Sunday evening. I am writing here what will be the first of what I hope will be several articles that will allow me to share and write about what is on my mind. Some will be serious. Some will be humorous. Some will be - well - some will be me just ranting on.

 

I don't know what frequency I will place these journal articles up on my site, but I figure I'll do it whenever I feel like sharing with you.

 

So on with my first entry…

 

 

September 15th.

 

I took a deep sigh when I saw that date on the calendar and realized that it has been exactly one decade since the death of my grandfather, Wesley Doyle McCullar.

 

His death was extremely tough on me and it literally goes almost daily where I don't think about him or feel as if he is watching down on me. I often wonder if he looks down with praise or disapproval in some of the things I do in my life.

 

On the anniversary of his death, I try to find some consolation. I attempt to force myself to make some good come out of my sorrow for his death that I still feel ten years later. A couple of weeks ago, I asked myself what I could do in his memory that would honor him. I thought about going down to Memphis and visiting his grave near Bolivar, Tennessee but I just couldn't make that trip at the moment.

 

Well, I found something that in some small way allowed me to grieve and (yet) honor him about a week ago when I went to St. Louis to watch the Cardinals and Cubs play at Busch Stadium.

 

One of my fondest memories of my grandfather was that he would watch Cardinal baseball games while listening to this funny little red transistor radio he used to carry. I remembered laughing with curiosity when I traveled down to Memphis during the summers and would see him put that radio to his ear. Sometimes if he needed to be quiet for others, he would sneak away and insert this plug into his ear that connected to the radio so that he could listen to Cardinal baseball games while he watched the said same game on the television with the volume off of the TV set. He just preferred the radio announcers to do the play-by-play description of the games instead of the guys on television.

 

Quirky thing, I know, but I always was fascinated about his idiosyncrasies.

 

I've mentioned this to a few friends recently and they told me that they knew many "old timers" that would do this kind of thing. I find it strange that a decade after his death, I would think of the little things like this.

 

I have this agreement with my parents we jokingly call the"fifteen year rule." You see, I'm not supposed to reveal some things to my folks that would have given them a heart attack had they known what I was up to. I would have been severely punished for my actions, and even today, this can give them consternation. These are things that I "got away with" that they didn't know then and would still like to ground me if they could! (Unfortunately now, they would have to see to it that my wife would carry out the execution of the sentences...)

 

Well, my fifteen years aren't up yet (sorry Mama and Daddy) and I'm just 31, but I'm going to confess to something I did a while back. Damn the consequences. Heh.

 

I drank a beer with my grandfather before I was 21.

 

Yep.

 

And that was probably the best damn beer I'd ever had because I shared it with him and I felt like a man. I was probably 19 or so at that time, perhaps a freshman in college, but it didn't matter. I even remember that it was a Busch Beer that I drank as I sat with my Granddaddy on a couch in my Uncle Mike's garage that he had converted into a musician's studio.

 

Granddaddy didn't say anything. It was understood. I still wonder if he disapproved of this beer that I was drinking or if he was smiling deep down inside that "his little buddy" was growing into a young man who he could share a cold one with.

 

Last Friday night as I sat in Busch Stadium watching the Cardinals play, these two memories of him being a Redbird fan along with that Busch beer came flooding back into my mind with the feelings of love I had for him. I miss him.

 

I miss the conversations we would have while we sat on his carport patio. Or the ride in his pick up truck. Orthe times we hung out by the backyard bar-be-cue. Or at the kitchen table where we ate a bowl of Grits together. Or that hothouse he constructed out back where he grew tomatoes.

 

That night, I toasted my grandfather with a plastic cup full of beer I bought for the expensive price of $5.50 that was worth every penny. I toasted his memory, made myself smile, and knew that somewhere up in the greatest skybox in Heaven he was listening to Jack Buck announce the game while he looked down upon all of his children.

 

Oh, and by the way, the Cardinals beat the Cubs that night… I just know he smiled at that!

 

So Granddaddy, I miss you. I hope what I do in life will make you proud.

 

Goodbye for now.

 

About my grandfather:

 

Doyle McCullar was originally from Batesville, Mississippi. He was an Army veteran of World War II attached to the 187th Field Artillery Group that was connected to the XIX Corps of the First U.S. Army (First Army Artillery Group). He received the Bronze Star Award for meritorious service in connection with military operations against the Germans during the period of June 14 to June 26, 1944 in France. He also received citations in recognition of conspicuously and outstanding performance of military duty in September 1944 and pushed through France, Luxembourg, Germany, and ended up in Czechoslovakia at the end of the Second World War.

 

My grandfather was married to Bettye Lou Clark. The two of them raised two children, my father Ryan and my uncle Mike. Granddaddy was a mechanic for most of his life. He died when he was 72.

 

He loved fishing, a cold beer, baseball, growing tomatoes, and had a heck of a sense of humor topped with a grand smile. He lived most of his days in Memphis, Tennessee.

 

He left me fond memories forever and his medals to remind me to be brave.

 

 

Scott