My Grandad passed away 15 years ago today.  He was one of my heroes and my thoughts turn to him this time of year, even after 15 years.

He was from humble means; his father was a farmer and carpenter.  He spent his entire life in a small town in central Arkansas, about 30 miles north of Little Rock.   He was a self made man, raised on a farm, attending what school he could, and then spent his adulthood as a storekeeper in his little town, as well as owning the town's movie theater.

He was too young for World War I, and health issues kept him from World War II, circumstances that he regretted all of his life.

He was of the generation that bridged the Old South and the New South, was a product of the former, and a building block of the latter.

Though The War of Northern Aggression, as he taught me to call it, had been over for some 38 years before he was born, it lingered still in the minds and hearts of his neighbors. My grandad knew men who had fought in the civil war. His own grandfather had fought in the Arkansas infantry, and he had an uncle who had been lynched by Yankee soldiers on his own land.  When I was young he gleefully told the story of the Yankees botching the job.  His uncle's family (who was hiding in the smokehouse, cut the old boy down before any permanent damage was done). 

Thinking back, one of the few times that he ever got upset with me was when I was about 13, and had brought up The War at the supper table.  He sternly told me that The War was not a subject for polite discussion, especially around women.    

Though he was from the deep South during a time in our history when hatred and racism prevailed, he saw men only for their character, a trait that would cause him a great deal of trouble later in his life.

While he had his little dry goods store, in the 1930's, he would take a day off during December and deliver presents to the black families in his town.   It wasn't much (he couldn't afford too much), but it caused quite the stir in a time when blacks were tolerated in the South, but certainly were expected to stay out of sight and keep quiet.  My Mom once told me that he was threatened by others in the town for doing this. 

Every summer I would go spend a week with him and my Grandmother, along with my sisters, and we'd be spoiled rotten.  During the days I would walk the half mile or so to his store, on Main Street, and just spend the day with him. 

At lunchtime we'd sometimes walk over to the College Inn and have our lunch.  He knew everyone in town, and it seemed like it took forever to walk down the sidewalks; he would stop and talk to everyone he met.

As with everyone, though, time took it's toll, and he grew older.  In 1996 he wound up in the hospital with chest pain, and my wife and I, with K's 1-3 in tow, made the late night drive from our home in Arlington, Texas to see him. 

We found him resting comfortably in the hospital, having just found out that he had a thoracic embolism that looked as if it were about to let go, which would surely kill him.  Despite this he was in a good mood and happy to see that my wife and I had brought our girls.

The next morning I found my Mom had beaten us to the hospital and was sitting with a middle aged nurse outside his room.  Mom introduced me and said that she had known the nurse when she was little.

The story that Mom told me later was that in the early 1970's this nurse had been a high school drop out, unwed mother of two or three  kids (I forget which) and was quite ostracized from the town.  It was near the end of summer, and she had no money to buy her kids shoes for school. 

Her good Christian neighbors had washed their collective hands of her (as many people who call themselves good Christians are prone to do, I've noticed), and she was in dire straits.  Grandad found out about it, and sold her shoes on credit so her kids could go to school.

Over the years this young mother had built her life, finished school herself, and gone on to become a nurse.  She was leaving the hospital late the night before after her shift and just happened to glance up to see my Grandad's name on the door.  She remembered him and his generosity, some 25 years later.  She noticed my Mom, and sat with her all night.

That's the effect my Grandad had on people. 

I remember him as a quite, uncomplicated, kind man.  He took care of  his family, and did his part to take care of his community.  I'm not sure that there's any better epitaph that can be written for anyone.

I miss you, Grandad.