I seem to think about my grandfather more in the winter than any other season. Probably because that was when he passed. It's easy when I close my eyes to see him sitting in the wooden chair he made himself, by the back door window. He'd peer out and look around with much intent, and soon there would be a grin. He'd spotted a redbird or maybe even a deer. He was the sort of simple and goodhearted soul that found happiness in the smallest of incidences, even in the barest of winter landscapes.
For my childhood years, we lived up the hill from him and my Mamaw. Us kids would traipse down the dusty hillside to their house knowing he'd be ready to fix us breakfast, any time of the day. He'd been on cooking duty during part of his time in the Air Force and he would often tell us about how much he enjoyed fixing breakfast for the boys during the Korean War. I can remember exactly how his scrambled eggs looked and tasted, and I must have watched him make them a hundred times or more. I've tried, but I just can't get mine like that. I guess it's the little things you remember most about those you loved. The unspoken or mundane moments in-between the important goings-ons of life.
At Christmas time, he would regale us with the most magnificent rendition of the old country carol, "Christmas Time's A Comin'" on his harmonica, and when the muscles in his arms began to fail him, we surprised him with a harmonica holder as a present. There was the grin again, the sparkle in his eyes. One of my brothers jumped up and put it on him, and off he went to playing.
Papaw Ray lived, ate, and breathed bluegrass music. He could play any bluegrass instrument expertly well and loved to share a song or two with anyone that would listen. It was often a loving joke between all who knew Ray that you couldn't slip away without him saying, "Here, let me play you a little tune." I don't believe he could read music- apparently he was self-taught from childhood. And he could tell you the most fascinating backstories to each song- what the lyrics meant, where it came from and so on.
I've turned out to be quite the thrifter, having a passion and an eye for old stuff and really appreciating the stories behind it. I also love selling. If you haven't seen me go at the farmer's market, you ought to try and make it past my booth without a purchase. I do kid, but still, I think it's safe to say I might have gotten this flair for flea market finds from my Papaw. He'd go set up each week at the Hillbilly Flea Market in Russell, and sometimes at other places, too. He loved to make a deal and to get out and socialize like that.
People really thought a lot of him and when he died, I did expect a lot of people to turn out at the funeral home visitation, but nothing close to what really did. The place was packed so that there was not one chair to sit in and no floor space to comfortably stand. People from all corners came out to pay their respects and when they said nice things about him, as people are apt to do at these sorts of gatherings, you could feel that they really meant it. We played bluegrass music at the visitation and there was a photo of a young Ray Perry, with that familiar grin, in his military uniform. I noticed he looked a lot like my brothers.
At the funeral service, my brother who is in the National Guard performed the military funeral flag presentation and I swear it was the saddest, most moving thing I've ever experienced in my life. There was some kind of beautiful circle closing as the flag was folded and he kneeled to present it to my Mamaw. People wailed out in the tiny chapel on the hill. It was snowing and as I walked back to the car with my arms folded, I thought about how much less kind the world felt that day.
I missed him and wished I had gotten to say goodbye. I could have, but as his muscular dystrophy worsened, I began to look away, to not want to try and talk to him on the phone. It was too painful for me to witness him suffering so. He had lost almost all motor function and had begun to choke on liquids, even his own spit. When he tried to speak, it was garbled, as his mouth and throat muscles began to give way. It was truly a pitiful situation.
They say that shortly before he passed, he was sitting in the living room of their condo (they had moved to Florida in recent years to be closer to their youngest child and her burgeoning family). He pointed at the window, out into the parking lot, saying, "Annette, it's a deer!"
It is some comfort for me to know that even in the dimming of his life, he was still living the same as he always had been, in his heart and in his mind.
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