Remembering Grandpa's Passing

This post recounts my memories of when my paternal grandfather died fifty-six years ago when he was sixty-five, on January 5, 1965.  I was six years old. 

I was awakened late at night by my dad who told me that Grandpa had died.  Grandpa and Grandma had just returned that day from visiting relatives in California.  Grandpa couldn't sleep and he got up to sit on the couch.  He asked Grandma to make him some tea and when she took it to him he was gone.  Grandpa died of a heart attack.  He'd had heart trouble for several years.

Grandma followed the old tradition of having the visitation in her home.  Grandpa's casket and the flowers were in the dining room.  I could see into the casket without being lifted up like my younger sister and cousins.  Dad told us that it wasn't really Grandpa lying there, it was just his shell, his soul having gone on to Heaven.  Many people came to the house to pay their respects.  My sister, our cousins, and I played upstairs where all the toys were.

I don't remember much about the funeral.  It was held at our small-town Baptist church.  Afterwards, we got in the car and drove to the cemetery hill outside of town.  I can still see the car lights turned on on all the cars heading to the cemetery.  That seemed really strange to me.  To this day, I get a slightly eerie feeling when I see car lights on during the day.

A few days later we had our usual sharing time in my first grade classroom.  I raised my hand to share something.  I walked up to the front of the room and said, "My grandpa died."  Matter-of-fact.  Kids are like that sometimes, I think.  I suppose I was sad when Grandpa died but I don't recall crying.

I wrote this post just for remembrance of a long-ago important event in my life.

The photo was taken this morning, January 5.