Love, Me

Our friends Matt & Brandy got married today at the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center. The ceremony was an interesting mix of traditional Jewish customs and more non-traditional elements that I'd never seen before. But what really got me was the very first guitar solo of Collin Raye's song Love, Me. Its an old country song that I hadn't heard in years. And it took just about everything I had to hold back the tears.



I miss you, Grandpa.

The name on your birth certificate said L Z, but everyone called you Luke or Luther. You grew up during the Great Depression and that taught you never to be wasteful. You served in the army during WWII. Doing what, I have no idea because I never thought to ask you. You taught my mom to shoot, and she loved it. You were tall and strong and had a soft-spoken voice. If I try to think of a time when I ever heard you raise your voice, I come up blank. You were never in a rush but also never still. You were always fixing something around the house or tinkering in your little workshop at the back of the house or spending hours and hours in the garden. I was your first grandchild. You made me a wooden rocking horse, a bed that had a Strawberry Shortcake cushion for my stuffed animals and a four-story dollhouse that I still have in the garage. I remember playing in your garden and pretending it was a wild, lush jungle because that's what it seemed like to me. I climbed that big tree and ran through the clothes that were drying on the line. When we got on Grandma's nerves, which was quite often, you would take us aside and calm us down. I remember sitting with you and your smell and your scratchy chin. You loved Alistair MacLean books. I borrowed a few from you but never got around to reading or returning them. You always had this old mint green jeep in the driveway, but I never remember it running. If there was a problem, you knew how to fix it. You taught me how to get rid of garden slugs with an aluminum pie plate and a beer, not that garden slugs were ever a problem back home in the desert. I found it horrifying and at the same time a little amusing that they were both attracted to and killed by the beer. You taught me how to fix a sticking door with a dry bar of soap. You were the McGuyver of household repairs. :)

Your granddaughter Sarah died in your arms as you gave her CPR. I remember you once came to visit us and passed out while you were working in the yard all by yourself. You didn't tell anyone about it until much later so we wouldn't worry. I remember getting a shock when I first saw you in that severe hospital bed in your den, like it was a permanent fixture. And unfortunately, it was. I remember how you slowly got weaker and weaker. That is not how I will remember you. I promise. I wish I had recorded your stories. The one that sticks out most in my mind is of your brother who would drink a cup of half coffee and half sugar and who once broke out of jail with a spoon. I wish I had brought you more Alistair MacLean and Louis L'Amour books. I wish I had taken that trip up to Albequerque so you could have met Greg. I think you would have liked him. And I know he would have loved you. All the boys did - Dad, Mr. Mac, Trav. You were always someone a man could look up to. The way you conducted yourself, your values, your strength - you were real hero material and that's the way I'll always remember you.

After 86 years, your struggle finally ended on August 27, 2007. I know you know that I love you.