18. Jack V

My Grandaddy is a gentleman. He still stands tall even at the age of eighty-four and you can see the outline of his six feet and change, though the years since Grandmommy died have nicked off an inch or two. As long as I can remember he has been a measure of a man, an example of dignity and humor and hard work much like my own dad.

I remember staying at his house in the summer. When Ginny and I were very small we would wake up early, too excited to sleep, and pitter pat down the hall to Grandmommy and Grandaddy's room. They would roll over with tired smiles and move over so we could hop in between them. We would giggle and burrow in the covers and generally love being with them. Their room smelled like clean menthol and perfume, a mixture of Grandaddy's mouthwash and Grandmommy's sweet clean scented lotion.

When I was a bit older I would wake up and stare, groggily startled by the yellow pattern of the wall paper and the mirror across from the bed, confused by my surroundings. Slowly my head would clear and I'd realize I was at Grandmommy and Grandaddy's. I would let my eyes drift back closed, and then slowly open, happily content to be in one of my favorite places. Enjoying the happy fact of summertime and the quiet creaks of the big old house, I would listen for a while. Soon the door downstairs would open and I'd hear the rustle of paper bags and the thump of his feet. It always impressed me that he was up so early, already dressed in khaki slacks and a button down shirt even on a Saturday, already out taking care of his girls. Smiling, I would climb out of bed and head downstairs for the Bojangles biscuits or powdered doughnuts I knew Grandaddy was carrying.

There were so many moments with my Grandaddy that left me either euphorically happy, like with the biscuits and doughnuts, or awed and impressed, such as his early rising and the fishing. Oh, fishing. We spent so many afternoons on the back of Grandaddy's boat with Uncle John and Dad, drifting slowly against the anchor and patiently dropping the line again and again. The best part was watching Grandaddy skin them and pack them up. His thick muscular fingers worked deftly, wielding his gutting knife with such ease I wondered if I could ever do the same. Then he'd roll them up in newspaper like they were nothing more than vases from Michael's and clean up the mess left on the wooden board. As we walked down the docks he'd wave and say, "Hallo," to the men we passed, exchanging a couple words with each one as he went. When I finally was allowed to go with him to the Boat House I thought I was entering holy ground-- I knew that here, where you could buy beer out of a vending machine and skin and eat fish together with the boys, was where I'd watch them admire him in his element. I felt small and much too much like a girl, but I liked listening to him laugh and joke with these men that so obviously admired him. I felt proud to be introduced as, "my granddaughter Hannah," and puffed up inside like an inflated balloon when I stood next to him at the sink while we both washed crab off of our fingers.

My grandfather is a gentleman who knows how to work hard. He takes good care of things but isn't afraid to use duct tape to fix 'em. He is gentle and kind and firm and strong. Grandaddy loves his family and is loved by his town. He is courageous and loyal and the best damn crab cooker on the East Coast. I love him more than horses and red wine and if someone ever says I remind them of my grandfather I'll know I'm living right.