There is a lot I didn’t know about my grandfather that I
regret not taking the time to ask him about.
I think we all have a touch of this regret about our grandparents’
generation. When we are young we are too
busy or shamefully just don’t appreciate it, and when we are old enough to care
it seems strange that you don’t know about their childhood or time in the War
or young adulthood that there is an awkwardness about asking. That said, there are wonderful things I do know
about Bubba Ely. I know the love he had for
my Grandmother, Boo. And, although her
bubbliness and lovable flightiness drove him insane at times, he loved her
faithfully. My heart is joyful when I
think of their reunion and his reunion with his son. I know that he loved and feared the Lord and
I remember one conversation with him about the importance of prayer that has
not left my memories. I know that he
loved his grandchildren dearly and showed that love, not in typical
grandfatherly affection, but in a better, warmer, deeper way; a love of shared
interests and respect.
I never wrote Bubba a letter that went unanswered and I
cherish those faded and cracked pieces of correspondence, especially those
letters we exchanged after my Grandmother died and I was so worried about
losing touch somehow. I also never told
Bubba about a book I was reading that he didn’t make it a point to read (if he
hadn’t already) so that we would have something to talk about. He taught me how to saddle a horse and took
me riding, taught me how to (literally) get back on that horse after I had been
thrown, and he taught me the beauty of just being who God made you to be and
enjoying that. Basically, from him I
learned that real swagger comes from not trying to be something you aren’t, but
just embracing who you are. There was
nothing fake or pompous or unnatural about the man. It’ll inspire confidence in anyone having a
grandfather cooler than John Wayne.
Beyond all this, I know that Bubba loved the Delta and the
Land. I have fond, vivid memories of the
times Bubba would drive me from Shaw to Cleveland and most of the time the
conversation would come back to the land.
“You see that road over there? “ pointing to some back road. “Do you
know where it goes?” he would ask
me. “No, sir” “Neither do I, but some
day we should take it and just find out.” He would explain and now I understand how
your love for this wonderful, rich Delta grows just by exploring the patchwork
of farmland covering its sprawl; loving it, not for the “culture” of it, but for
its almost paradoxical lushness and rawness.
Loving it for the way it
stretches out endlessly, and for the unrivaled beauty of the sun setting miles
away uninterrupted by buildings or elevation, just melting into its deep dark
level land, and the way rows finally meet on the horizon of a planted field. I learned to daydream about a clump of trees
standing alone in an otherwise perfect field.
I love this place, this land, in great part because of a mutual
affection nurtured in me by Bubba Ely, my Grandfather, the coolest guy I’ve
ever known.
