A Radiator on the Table?

We received notice of a key witness's declining health today.  To say his health is declining is to say that the Mississippi River is a babbling brook. This man is dying. It's an ugly death, and even in litigation, I am human. And I grieve for his family. I grieve because my memories of my grandpa are marred by cancer's grip.

My grandpa was small--even to an eight-year old girl. He wore uniforms to work, with his name on some of them. I am mindful of this each time I interact with anyone who wears a uniform with his name on it. His hair was long-ish; he kept it that way to help keep his hats on (or so he claimed to us grandkids). His ball caps were handmade--by him. When he died, one of the most hotly claimed heirlooms was his hat making machine.

His fingernails were dirty, and he drank quarts of beer leaning back precariously in his aluminum-framed chair. One of my favorite pictures shows him leaning back in his chair, a radiator on the table (yes, really), and a smile on his face. Salads were served in Tupperware, and we used paper towels for napkins. Simple life. Easy joy.

I didn't know him well. I know his mealtime prayer: "Good bread, good meat, good God, let's eat!" I know he meant it all. He appreciated good bread and good meat; he loved to grocery shop--a fact noticed by his fellow shoppers. Fried bologna and popcorn made in a skillet. He appreciated the gifts God had given him in his too short life. He appreciated pretty: on sack sale day at the thrift stores, we'd gather around the dining room table to ooh and ahh over upholstery fabric he'd found--15 yards for a dollar. By the next week, the lawn furniture would have new covers--and so would the couch and a few footstools.

He had a sense of humor, though most of his jokes I've learned as an adult.  He would have loved R.J. My little gassy one lives by his great grandpa's edict: "better out than in!" 

There was art in his soul. He made stained glass windows. And lamps. As kids, my cousin and I would lay in the living room floor and try to find the skirted figures hiding abstractly in the front door glass.

Death was ugly. And it wasn't nearly quick enough--or so I understand. I was eight. And I don't remember much. I remember enough. And those memories are more than enough to make me remember my promise to work as a Christian lawyer. So tonight, I will pray for a witness's family. For peace. For acceptance. For memories.