“Old Dan Tucker was a fine old man, washed his face in a frying pan…” My grandfather would sing this to me as he placed his arm around my shoulder. Sometimes he would create his own melody, rhyming my name or humming a silly tune. Even as the years passed, I never grew tired of hearing him sing. In recent years, when he lost his ability to clearly speak, he would still come to my side and put his arm around me, grinning. I know he was silently singing to me; an unspoken hymn between a girl and her grandpa.
I will miss the little things about him; the simple, mundane memories that are now so significant—his patient, calloused hands gently casting my fishing pole. I would watch with childlike intrigue as he cleaned our catch at the end of the day, expertly filleting what would soon be our dinner.
I remember the thrill and anticipation as he built us our very own swing set, and I recall my mother’s gratitude as he constructed a bedroom wall in our basement. Wherever there was a need, he met it. My grandpa was always giving of himself.
Since Earth is that much more barren and desolate without you on it, Grandpa, then I can only believe that Heaven is that much more radiant with you in it. I pray that the lakes are boundless and the fish are abundant. I pray that you are once again singing—perhaps the newest alto in the choir of angels. Maybe you are with them now, grinning your remarkable grin and singing, “Old Dan Tucker was a fine old man”….so were you, Grandpa Black. One of the finest.
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