My maternal Grandfather was killed by a drunk driver before I was born. Though I have nothing but respect and admiration for the man, he's never filled the role of "grandpa" in my life. That role was filled by my grandmother's companion of 21 years, Jim Kerr. For as long as I can remember, Birthday and Christmas cards arrived signed "Gram and Jim" and when we'd visit every couple of summers he'd take us out for breakfast, and proudly introduce us to anybody who would listen as "his grandkids."
Jim was as backwoods as they come. He probably smoked 2 packs of cigarettes a day. He said aint and y'all and often left the last letter off of the end of his words. He was a career truck driver, and loved few things more then fishin'. Jim was nothing like the rest of my family. Growing up we had so few things in common, it was hard for me to bond with him. What I wasn't able to appreciate as a child but certainly do now, is that for 21 years Jim sincerely loved and took care of my Grandmother. He doted on her, doing whatever he could to make her happy. He wasn't what I was used to being around but he was a wonderful man.
Now, sadly, the cigarettes and hazardous chemicals he was exposed to in his truck have caught up with him. In November he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Earlier this month his care was turned over to hospice. Their nurses didn't think he'd last through this past weekend. He's still hanging on though. Fighting to see the completion of the garden he promised my grandmother they'd have this spring. It's a work in progress, but not too far from being done. He's in and out of consciousness, bed ridden, and has no vision but keeps telling my Mom and Grandmother "it's going to be so beautiful." If heaven is anything like I think and hope it is, his will be a garden, with a windmill at the entrance.
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