This is a paper I wrote in college .

Learning to Die

It began in sixth grade. I had finally realized that my grandpa was gone and I wouldn't see him again in this lifetime. The man that had stepped into the empty shoes of father for me, wouldn't stand next to me anymore.

It's not that I didn't realize that he had died, but an eight - year old doesn't truly think in terms of forever. At that time it was just that "Grandpa is sleeping and God is taking care of him." I remember looking at him as he lay peacefully in his silk coffin, one of his beautiful Sunday suits on and looking so serene and peaceful. I kissed his cheek and tried to hold his hand. I spoke to him quite a few times, trying to make him feel better so that maybe he wouldn't be "sick " very long. I don't remember crying, not even when uncle Larry tried to explain to me and my cousin Lisa what had actually happened. I remember she cried as we sat on his lap, there in grandpa's now unused bedroom. Of course , she was older than me and understood those sorts of things better.

It was a very long drive to Elizabethtown, KY, and also a very quiet one, except for the tears that continuously came from my family. The funeral was crowded once we arrived. Family and friends from all over had come to see my grandpa one last time and to pay their respects to everyone. I was part of the group that was given a seat under the funeral tent with all of the close relatives, but I was restless, so I and my cousin Lisa ventured out into the cemetery. We were examining all the different names and designs on the headstones and the area looked like spring with so many colorful flowers decorating the grounds.

I came to one headstone that obviously had something different about it, something that excited me, though I can't remember what it was, so I called out for Lisa in my lilttle girl's voice, "Lisa!" but as I turned to the group I had wandered away from, I saw that Lisa was back with my aunt and uncle, and she and everyone else had their heads down, praying for the safe passage of my grandpa into Heaven. My aunt Zelma quickly shushed my calls with a finger to her lips and a stern look to accompany it.

At that moment, the little girl inside of me felt ashamed for not being with them, bowed and silent, crying for my only grandpa, the only father I knew. I meekly went back to sit beside my mom in my cool metal fold-out chair. The lid to grandpa's final bed was closed now and they were removing the beautiful, large American flag that had draped over it, for he had served his country well in World War II, and earned that flag with everything he'd done, folding it ceremoniously for my family, and finally handing it to my mom.

It's been a little over eleven years now and I've only been able to stand beside his engaved name twice since that far-away day in 1980. The tears finally came though. In sixth grade my mom had to leave me with my nanny while she went on tour to sing in Florida and I became so lonely. Remembrances of grandpa began flooding back to me as I lay in my twin bed late that night and the tears I couldn't cry in second grade came pouring out of my eyes and out of my heart.

I thought of how he used to sit on the couch in that little trailer, and play his Martin guitar while I would sing the church songs I knew...."Jesus Loves Me", "Jesus Loves the Little Children", those songs that seem so small, but can bring a wealth of meaning to a child's heart. He would sing to me to. I loved to hear his voice as he carried the melodies along .

I thought of the times we stood at the sink washing dishes, well, I stood on a kitchen chair by him. We'd work together to get things done. I never thought to fuss about those things, it was just the way it was done.

I think about going and grabbing a hot dog out of the fridge , and then asking for it later. What a stinker I was. He loved to give me what ever I was wanting. I know that some people think I might have been spoiled by this, but on the contrary, he was a good example of giving and doing for others. He gave with a cheerful heart and never failed to show me love.

I only remember two times when he had to think about disciplining me. Notice I said think. The first time was on the way from North Carolina when he picked me up from my mother's . You see, she was young and had some problems to deal with and thought it'd be best if I stayed with someone else in the family for a while. I don't regret her decision, I've learned a lot in my life. Anyway, on the way to Kentucky, I started getting very upset about leaving momma. I cried and cried and cried some more, bless them Lord, they took it as long as they could and grandpa finally told me I had to stop crying or I'd get a spanking. I finally stopped , and never got a spanking, but I remember the hurt in his eyes as he talked to me. I could tell that he wanted this experience to be a good one for me and didn't want any bad memories for me.

The second time was a few years later, at the little trailer. As I laid in my bed at night I started to think of momma again, and started crying. Now don't think that I never heard from my momma during this time, cause I did. We wrote all the time, sent pictures and cassette tapes, and packages.....we were never out of each others lives. But for some reason I started crying for her. Maybe it was the Lord and I could tell that my mom really needed someone to cry for her, now that I'm older I know about the spirit of burden that the Lord can put on some people , you know to pray for them in intercessory prayer, maybe that's what came over me. What ever it was, I cried and cried, like before. I couldn't stop. Grandpa came in to check on me once and twice, but I just couldn't get myself to stop. By the third time he came in it was to let me know I'd get a spanking if I didn't quit. I didn't get one then either.

I have no memories of grandpa punishing me in any hard way, and that is one thing some of my aunts and uncles might have a hard time believing. You see, when he was raising them he was a hard disciplinarian. This is my momma's view anyway. She never knew the man I knew. She never knew the person that took me to the theatre to see Bambi. It just wasn't done when they were little. But the man I knew was not one I can see as anything other. Mom thinks God gave him another chance with me, to correct some things he might have done wrong while raising his children. She's glad she was able to give him that. She's told me numerous times that she wishes she'd known the daddy that I had come to know him as. I've told her she will when we all get to Heaven.

Time has slowly gone by. I keep a small picture of my grandpa in a small blue heart frame that stays on my writing desk. I only have a small number of material things in my possession that he left for me, but each one is pampered in velvet next to my heart.

It took time, but I've learned that people have to die, and that a person must go on with out them, even though it's very difficult. It's painful to know that the people I love so much will have to leave me one day, but not because they want to, and I'll have to go on, remembering them, wishing to talk to them, hug them or just to hear their voices.

I believe I love and miss my grandpa more and more as the years go by because he was a calm force in my young eyes, and the world keeps getting more turbulent as I grow older. He was also one of the only two men I've ever trusted. I still think of him in my mind, cry for him, and look forward to when I can see him again so I can let him know, just in case he doesn't , how very much I miss him and that I really need a hug. I've learned to cope with death, but I still wish it didn't happen.

John Edward Whitman

August 22, 1921-September 14, 1980

written February 10, 1992

Regina Whitman Scott