Clyde was ninety-two years old when we buried him. He was not old enough. This earth, however, took its toil on his rugged frame.
Clyde’s obituary stated, “He never met a stranger.” I added those words. If I wrote it now, I would phrase it differently. Instead, I would say, “Everyone Clyde met was a Friend he didn’t yet know.”
Clyde was my mentor, friend, confidant, and grandfather. Clyde taught me the power of unconditional love. I learned so poorly.
Clyde was. He was slyly humorous, intentionally cantankerous, and genuinely wise, and humble.
Clyde taught me to think. I was a young girl in the 1960’s. I was supposed to aspire to baking, cooking, and mending. Clyde taught me to drive a tractor, find horny toads, and be me. He was the one person in my life who wanted to know who I was. He wanted to know who I wanted to be. He asked me what I thought, and listened intently to my answers.
Clyde acted as if my words and thoughts were important. He wanted to know what I had to say. He encouraged me to talk when other adults, encouraged me to be quiet.
I am who I am, because of my grandfather, Clyde. When I wonder what to do, and how to act, or react in difficult situations, I remember Clyde.
I remember his gift of unconditional love. It may be the most powerful tool in the arsenal of self.
Can I continue lessons which are so difficult to apply? Can I love others with the profound love that seeks selflessness? I cannot.
I will however, try. I will try because Clyde lived.
Clyde was.
