Safe Journey Home, Grandpa
Feb. 8th, 2011 11:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
angela_n_huntMargie Mom called me tonight.
She had that tone in her voice.
Last time I had heard it, it was worse, but it was the same sort of news. Last night, my grandfather, Marvin Hyatt, died.
He was almost 94 years old. He'd outlived two wives and one child. He'd served in World War II. He'd run his own business.
He wrote me letters. They were infrequent. But they were precious.
See, when I was six, because my grandparents lived so far away, I started writing to them. My grandmother was the one to write back. Unless she was busy or not feeling well, at which point, my grandfather would do the honors and his handwriting was this impossible to read scrawl that would take me an hour to decipher.
But it was always worth it.
Yes, they were Weather Letters. You know. How the weather was. What the garden was doing. The list of Honey Dos that Grandma had for him.
And love.
They were always filled with love.
So they are precious to me, just as the letters from my grandmother are. I've kept every single one.
When my beloved grandmother died, my grandfather carried on writing back to me. But the letters came less and less frequently. Even typed out, they were harder and harder for him to write and I could tell. But I kept writing. Sent pictures of my girls. My Aunt Rosie would send notes back to tell me how much he loved the letters and the photos.
I will never get another letter.
At least not a physical one.
He lived an amazing life. I know he's gone to sit in the glory of the presence of his God and Savior. I know that he is with my grandmother. I know he is with my father, though I think my father is only visiting Heaven through the side door that opens on the hedonistic Elysian Fields where he's staying.
I can only pray that I leave behind as rich and honorable a legacy as my grandfather's when it comes time to let this flesh go.
Godspeed, Grandpa. I'll see you on the other side.
She had that tone in her voice.
Last time I had heard it, it was worse, but it was the same sort of news. Last night, my grandfather, Marvin Hyatt, died.
He was almost 94 years old. He'd outlived two wives and one child. He'd served in World War II. He'd run his own business.
He wrote me letters. They were infrequent. But they were precious.
See, when I was six, because my grandparents lived so far away, I started writing to them. My grandmother was the one to write back. Unless she was busy or not feeling well, at which point, my grandfather would do the honors and his handwriting was this impossible to read scrawl that would take me an hour to decipher.
But it was always worth it.
Yes, they were Weather Letters. You know. How the weather was. What the garden was doing. The list of Honey Dos that Grandma had for him.
And love.
They were always filled with love.
So they are precious to me, just as the letters from my grandmother are. I've kept every single one.
When my beloved grandmother died, my grandfather carried on writing back to me. But the letters came less and less frequently. Even typed out, they were harder and harder for him to write and I could tell. But I kept writing. Sent pictures of my girls. My Aunt Rosie would send notes back to tell me how much he loved the letters and the photos.
I will never get another letter.
At least not a physical one.
He lived an amazing life. I know he's gone to sit in the glory of the presence of his God and Savior. I know that he is with my grandmother. I know he is with my father, though I think my father is only visiting Heaven through the side door that opens on the hedonistic Elysian Fields where he's staying.
I can only pray that I leave behind as rich and honorable a legacy as my grandfather's when it comes time to let this flesh go.
Godspeed, Grandpa. I'll see you on the other side.
