To those who are curious.
Feb. 22nd, 2009 09:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pay_the_piperMy Grandfather passed away this morning. It was peaceful, at least for him. He wasn't awake, and hadn't been for several days, and so he was utterly unaware of the happenings around him. I spent most of Saturday at the hospital, and tried my best not to cry when my mom was around.
If I cry it seems to upset my mother more than anything, though she cried when she told me this morning. It was about 7:30 that I got the call.
I don't know when the funeral will be, but at least the worst part of things are over. Watching someone die is by far the worst experience I have ever had. The sheer helplessness, and lack of ability to do anything, because the outcome is the same no matter what you do.
But my grandfather, Lloyd Potts, was 87 years old, and as my father said today...he had been waiting for go for the last 25. My grandmother, Myra Estel Potts died Christmas Day, 1983. (My first Christmas, in case people wondered.) And I was told that he was never really the same after that. He loved my grandmother deeply, even I could see it as I grew up and learned more about him and her.
He was a World War II veteran like my Grandpa Raphelt, only he'd served on the front lines in Europe. He had been one of the first to go through the Camps, and told me once that he'd never wish the horror he saw there on anyone. Grandpa told me that they made the Germans clean up the dead, and if they tried to look away he said they forced them Germans to look. That was all he'd say about the camps.
Though he told me a funny story, too. About the first time he'd ever seen a jet airplane. He and group of soldiers were instructed to guard a bridge. A German pilot was ordered to bomb that same bridge. Grandpa said for a month that plane would fly by the bridge and they'd try to shoot it down. Every day, same time, both groups always seemed to miss. Finally, after a month, he said the pilot tried one last time...and when he missed again, he landed his plane and walked back to the bridge and surrendered. According to the story, the Germans had said if the pilot missed one more time, he wasn't to come back...
I suppose, if the story is true, he took them very literally.
Most of my memories of him will be of the Farm, Twin Oaks. Of getting up at the crack of dawn to help feed the cows, and set about the daily chores. I looked forward to those days, sitting in the kitchen at 6am, before the sun was up, mixing bottles for the calves. Then we'd thromp out of the lot and I would bottle feed the babies, before dashing off the feed cellar to get my bucket. With my barely half-full bucket, I'd walk out of the heifer field with Grandpa and we'd pour the grain into the feed bins and count the head of cattle. If all were in the lot from the pasture we'd move on to the breed lot/pasture and I'd sit on the gate while Grandpa went out to feed the herd and talk to the bull. If it wasn't in the middle of breeding season, I'd sometimes get to breed the bulls, short little trips about the lot, bareback on a massive bull.
And of course after that it was back to the cellar to refill my bucket and then we'd head out to the small Steer lot, and feed the boys. They were always bopping around and playing. After morning feed, though, it was play time...and Micah, Trey (my cousins) and I would take off into the fields, or find other ways to help out around the farm. After that, was evening feed, and something then it was out to the woods to run the dogs and hunt raccoons.
When I was a kind, I never remember Emory, Texas being boring or dull. It was a world of adventure, and my grandpa was very, nearly the flagship. He kept us from getting hurt, but he never limited us to the things we could do. And I will miss him, just as I will miss the farm, and miss my childhood.
But I am glad it is over, and that I no longer have to sit and wonder when will I get that call.
If I cry it seems to upset my mother more than anything, though she cried when she told me this morning. It was about 7:30 that I got the call.
I don't know when the funeral will be, but at least the worst part of things are over. Watching someone die is by far the worst experience I have ever had. The sheer helplessness, and lack of ability to do anything, because the outcome is the same no matter what you do.
But my grandfather, Lloyd Potts, was 87 years old, and as my father said today...he had been waiting for go for the last 25. My grandmother, Myra Estel Potts died Christmas Day, 1983. (My first Christmas, in case people wondered.) And I was told that he was never really the same after that. He loved my grandmother deeply, even I could see it as I grew up and learned more about him and her.
He was a World War II veteran like my Grandpa Raphelt, only he'd served on the front lines in Europe. He had been one of the first to go through the Camps, and told me once that he'd never wish the horror he saw there on anyone. Grandpa told me that they made the Germans clean up the dead, and if they tried to look away he said they forced them Germans to look. That was all he'd say about the camps.
Though he told me a funny story, too. About the first time he'd ever seen a jet airplane. He and group of soldiers were instructed to guard a bridge. A German pilot was ordered to bomb that same bridge. Grandpa said for a month that plane would fly by the bridge and they'd try to shoot it down. Every day, same time, both groups always seemed to miss. Finally, after a month, he said the pilot tried one last time...and when he missed again, he landed his plane and walked back to the bridge and surrendered. According to the story, the Germans had said if the pilot missed one more time, he wasn't to come back...
I suppose, if the story is true, he took them very literally.
Most of my memories of him will be of the Farm, Twin Oaks. Of getting up at the crack of dawn to help feed the cows, and set about the daily chores. I looked forward to those days, sitting in the kitchen at 6am, before the sun was up, mixing bottles for the calves. Then we'd thromp out of the lot and I would bottle feed the babies, before dashing off the feed cellar to get my bucket. With my barely half-full bucket, I'd walk out of the heifer field with Grandpa and we'd pour the grain into the feed bins and count the head of cattle. If all were in the lot from the pasture we'd move on to the breed lot/pasture and I'd sit on the gate while Grandpa went out to feed the herd and talk to the bull. If it wasn't in the middle of breeding season, I'd sometimes get to breed the bulls, short little trips about the lot, bareback on a massive bull.
And of course after that it was back to the cellar to refill my bucket and then we'd head out to the small Steer lot, and feed the boys. They were always bopping around and playing. After morning feed, though, it was play time...and Micah, Trey (my cousins) and I would take off into the fields, or find other ways to help out around the farm. After that, was evening feed, and something then it was out to the woods to run the dogs and hunt raccoons.
When I was a kind, I never remember Emory, Texas being boring or dull. It was a world of adventure, and my grandpa was very, nearly the flagship. He kept us from getting hurt, but he never limited us to the things we could do. And I will miss him, just as I will miss the farm, and miss my childhood.
But I am glad it is over, and that I no longer have to sit and wonder when will I get that call.
