A Lump in His Throat

It seems like yesterday.

The year was 2010, perhaps 2011. My dad and mom and I were standing in their dining room, and somehow we began talking about my granddad; my father’s father-in-law.

And the very fact that I refer to my grandfather as my “father’s father-in-law,” (rather than “my mother’s father”) should provide you some insight into how daddy felt about him.

Although granddaddy Earnest rarely offered more than, “how you doing” or “you seen my garden lately” to his grandsons and granddaughters, he and my dad would while away hours on the front porch; chatting about a whole lotta something and a whole lotta nothing. I think he was closer to “Mr. Ring” than his own father.

My dad passed away in 2012, and my mother joined him last week. And this far along I can only surmise the exact memory to which I was referring; as my parents and I stood in their dining room that day. But I think it was one of the most poignant and recurring of all memories which I still retain in the gray matter which fills up my cranium.

 

My grandparents lived in south Georgia, and we resided in central Florida, and I suppose we saw them all of three times a year.  And without fail, as the extended family sat to dinner, my grandfather would pray,

“Kind Heavenly Father, may we thank Thee for these blessings. In Christ’ name. Amen.”

And as I alluded to this, (or perhaps some other precious memory involving my grandfather) something happened which had never happened in the sixty plus years I’d known my dad.

He had been listening to our conversation; while offering little or nothing for minutes at a time.

Suddenly, daddy spoke.

“Mr. Ring, he, he…"

And it was then that it seemed a stifled sob rose in his throat.

My father was a proud man, and when he realized his momentary lapse, he excused himself with,

“I think that lemon drop went down the wrong way”

(or)

“Maybe I need to get my dentures adjusted.”

And I knew. I just knew. 

Although he’d always insisted on using that respectful prefix before my grandfather’s surname, daddy loved him, and counted him his dearest friend.

And now only I remain.

But I have the memories. And there are few any more precious, or indelible than that which I have recounted for you here.


By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 35. Copyright pending

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