He was not a man of many words but when he did say something you listened. I can honestly say I don’t think I ever really knew who he was beyond my grandfather. I caught glimpses and pieces of him in stories he told but never got the full picture of the man known affectionately as “Red.”

Maybe that’s the reality of everyone. Maybe we only really know our version of people. Maybe I should have asked more questions or prodded slowly and gently, providing the right amount of pressure until a diamond appeared. Maybe Red was just Red.

Life’s a funny thing. One minute you are born and the next all of your things are left behind for family to sort through to determine what should be kept, donated, sold, or has sentimental value.

I guess what represents the person truly are the loved ones that are left behind. They each carry a piece of the person with them.

I shared a story with my boys the other night of how I imagined my grandparents meeting some 60 plus years ago.

Cue the 50’s country music. My grandmother worked a truck stop/restaurant near a place in town called “The Round House” where truckers would stay. She was a very young mother working to support her children, leaving her past behind and looking for a fresh start. She was beautiful, old Hollywood beautiful. I imagine my granddad coming in and sitting in his usual “spot” or booth when walks up, a new waitress, one he hadn’t met before. She was different. With a shy grin, she takes his order, his usual as he was very much a creature of habit and brings back a cup of coffee.

Later, he somehow musters up the courage to tell her a joke. He catches a smile from her and it takes his breath away. He is about to head back on the road and knows he would have to ask her out before any of the other guys knows she’s working there. He mumbles something about going out, and surprising herself and him, she agrees. Underneath that tough exterior and uniform, there’s something about the guy.

Years pass and now they are reunited in heaven. She was always right even when she was wrong, and he was never right even if he was right. That’s just how their relationship worked. I imagined as he entered heaven, there was a familiar scene, he was much younger and so was she. It was his spot in the old truck stop/restaurant, and she brings him his “usual” and says curtly, “It’s about time.” He smiles and laughs, saying something not quite appropriate for heaven but St. Peter gives him a pass as he knows how long Red has missed Faye. Together, they leave and go home in heaven to their old yellow house on Strawberry Street. They sit on the front porch swing and look down at the life they created together. Other family members stop for a spell and greet Red. His brothers jokingly rib their baby brother and his mother greets him with a hug. His daddy hands him a hat and he places it on top of his head. He thanks God he’s finally home with “mama” as he affectionately called my grandmother. He can finally rest easy and is no longer alone or sad.

I brought home the candy dish Red won in a cake walk as a child. I can’t believe he kept it that long. It’s a story I’ll never forget and a piece of him I will take with me. I loved the man and I know he loved me in his own grandfatherly way. I guess I didn’t have to know everything about the man, but just that he loved me.