All Men are Mortal; Even the Invincible Grisham White

I received the call this morning that was impending for years. After listening to my father's voice mail, telling me there was bad news, I knew from the tone of his voice that somebody had passed away. I wasn't surprised when I found out it was Grandpa White

He was 98 years old, so I can't say as I was shocked by the news. Of course, I am definitely sad about all this. The hardest thing to accept is that I didn't get a chance to see him since I've been back from Australia. I had a couple of chances to make a visit work, but I was always too busy, first trying to find a job, then being stuck in my schedule, trying to make up for all the money I spent over the last year. Since I was for sure coming for Thanksgiving, I wasn't too worried, he'd held on far longer than anyone had expected, so I had no fear that he wouldn't make it another few weeks, long enough that I'd get to spend one more Thanksgiving with him. Sadly, the world does not selfishly go according to ones plans. I'll get over it though; again, I really didn't expect him to live as long as he did.

Grandpa White was the only grandpa I really ever knew. My mom's father died tragically in his forties before I was even born. Though Mamoes has been with her husband for most of my life, he was younger than my dad, so seeing Carlos as my grandpa and not a good friend was a bit difficult.

Grandpa was not really a typical grandpa. I never saw him as a young or even a middle-aged man; he was the ripe age of 72 when I was born. That said, I never saw him as an old man either for many years. Always working long hours on the farm into his late 80's, Grandpa seemed invincible; he existed as living proof that a man's age has no bearing on a person's life. He was an active, hard-working man for nearly his entire long life. I saw this first hand, waking up at 5AM with him to help feed the cattle and learn about life on a farm.

It wasn't until I was an adult that he actually started aging. These last few years have been hard, seeing him as a tiny old man with a slipping memory. Not to say he ever stopped being Grisham White. A couple years ago when he broke his hip and was to never walk again. I came to visit, expecting to see him stuck in a chair, blanket draped over his legs like FDR. Instead, he bounced out of his recliner, no wheel chair, no crutches, no walker, and gave me a big hug. He was an amazing man and to think that he was in end actually mortal is as astounding as his durability. He's been around for nearly 100 years; his stubborness mixed with modern medicine made me believe that he could live for 100 more. Alas, Grandpa was but a man.

I will greatly miss him. For years, I saw my friend's much younger grandparents pass away while Grisham still stacked 60lb haybails in the shed. Few get to know their grandparents as adults. Few get to have their grandparents live into their late 90's and not have their last memories be of them in a hospital bed connected to tubes. The last time I saw grandpa was like any other time I left Missouri, him waving goodbye from the driveway as we hit the road. And this is how he'll always be for me, that loving man who never let age change his actions. The man who sat at his big desk, doing the book every day to Paul Harvey, finishing just in time to hear "the rest of the story". The man who let me curl in his lap on Saturday nights with a big bowl of popcorn. The man who always had to be a part of the conversation, even when he couldn't even hear what was being said.

Grisham White will definately be missed by many. He has long been a pillar of his church of the community. His seat at the Macon High Football games will sit vacant, without the signature big smile and seed hat. As a White in Macon, it was impossible for me to write a check without the clerk telling me to say hi to Grisham for them. I won't be alone in mourning which is comforting in a way. His death will leave a void in world for sure: I can't be the only one who saw him as being invincible.

With love Grandpa, you'll be missed forever.