My Pappy passed away late Monday evening (October 3rd) in a ball of fury, and on his own time, just like everything else he did in his life. It was a blessing we had been praying for, him to be able to leave us, and not be in pain anymore. I am thankful I was fortunate enough to be there for those last sweet moments, counting his breaths and holding his hand. I am so proud of my Grandma that night in the hospital. She was strong, and brave, and dealt far better than I would have leaving the man that had been by my side since I was 16 {they were married 62 years}. She told me yesterday she can’t bear to sleep in their room because she wakes up thinking he is calling for her. My Grandpa’s favorite color was red. Mammie’s is blue, but everything he ever bought her was red, and she wore it even though she thought it clashed with her fair skin. To honor him, we all wore a bit of red to the funeral home for calling hours on Thursday. Mammie insisted I wear my red cowboy boots because Pappy would’ve chuckled at the notion. Over this past week, I remembered why I love being from a small town. I appreciate every antidote and memory that was shared with us about Pap. His rough and tumble days of owning bars, and how he always “traveled with the Lord” {Lord Calvert}. I grew up on Mammie and Pappy’s farm so I was lucky enough to have him be a constant in my everyday life. He was Colby cheese and trail bologna waiting on us after school, and he was the best part of Sundays, taking us out to breakfast after Mass. He was a spanking when I got a C on my report card, and he was the bumpiest back road, flying over the railroad tracks. He was whiskey slush on Thanksgiving, putting in hay on Saturdays, and the sports section. He was a family vacation in a RV, and he was fried bologna sandwiches. Pappy was the polka and every Ronnie Milsap song I’ve ever heard. (via What Anna Loves: funeral boots)

Source: whatannaloves.blogspot.com

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