Daddy Buck

I've really struggled writing this. My grandfather passed away last Sunday, and I'm hit more and more everyday by how much I miss him. We called him "Daddy Buck" and he lived next door to me all my life. He was a good neighbor, a wonderful grandfather, and a great man. He taught my 3rd grade class stories about life in the Great Depression, he told me he always knew I'd be a teacher, and he grossly mispronounced the names of everyday foods.

Here is a picture of him fishing. He loved to fish. I'm not a fisher myself, but if you gave me a rod after showing me this picture, I'd be out to the fishing hole in no time at all.

Here he is at the pool with my oldest brother (a wee lad at the time). Daddy Buck would always show up when we kids went swimming. Even this last summer, he came out on his porch and didn't nod or shake his head, or even say a word. He just watched us and smiled.

This next one is from one of his favorite barbeque joints. Daddy Buck would call me while I was in college just to go out for a sandwich. I knew, of course, that this always meant a barbeque sandwich, and I knew, too, that he would always pay - even if my brother or I insisted otherwise. Most times, I wouldn't be able to go right then, so he'd always offer me a "rain check." I never cashed in enough of those.

Here we are as children wrestling with him. He appears to be winning handily.

Needless to say, we all miss him dearly. He was ready to go though, and for that I'm grateful. He was also a man of faith, and it eases the pain to know that he is now in a far better place, a place where death itself works backwards, a place where his loving wife awaits him, a place where all things are made new.