My just-turned-four nephew was here for a visit recently. He is a bundle of kinetic energy capable of
rivaling the likes of the Energizer Bunny.
He loves puppies, his big brother, and Pop Tarts, but not necessarily in
that order. He fell asleep in my lap,
and I sniffed in the sweet smell of his little boy head. He also bravely rose to the challenge of
“saying the blessing” one evening before dinner. I was late joining everyone at the table, and
I walked into the kitchen just in time to hear, “Thank You God for making
rainbows.” It hadn’t rained that day, and
we certainly had not seen a rainbow, but that was his prayer. Sweet and pure and sincere. “Thank You God
for making rainbows.” He didn’t linger
over a laundry list of things he needed God to fix in his world nor did his
list each of his plentiful blessings and profusely thank their Giver. He hid no deep, theological lesson in those
words. His mind wasn’t on Noah and his
flood and the resulting covenant. Nope,
just “thank You for making rainbows”.
Because they make him happy and they are pretty and they are neat and
you don’t see them every day so it is really special when you do. It made me smile. I’m pretty confident that it made God smile
too.
So, this evening, with a heart hurting for my husband, my
children, my mother-in-law, my brother- and sisters-in-law and their families,
for our Aunt Dolores, and countless friends and family, I bowed my head and
said, “Thank You God for making Granddaddy”.
That’s it. That was all I had
left at the end of an extremely long day.
But it was enough, because Granddaddy was kind of like a rainbow - he
made me happy, and he was really neat, and I didn’t see him every day, so it
was really special when I did.
“Granddaddy” was Leon Varley (Buster) Dulion, jr., Michael’s
daddy. He left us today, and we miss him. I started writing the thoughts that follow a
few weeks ago. At the time I really
didn’t know why I was writing it. for
Michael? for the children? Now I know that it was just for the love of
rainbows. . .
I met him for the
first time in the autumn of his life.
For this I am grateful as I am quite sure that I would have been
ill-equipped to handle the springtime version of the larger-than-life,
terrifically intimidating man who would become my father-in-law. At that time, in that season he was about
reading books – so many books, pasta with red sauce, fish chowder with no rice,
hot coffee, even hotter soup, movies, white no-frills pick-up trucks, blue
jumpsuits, and work . . . always work.
He read a book the way a book was meant to be read. Analyzing. every. single. word. The Bible was no exception; the mysteries of
the Old Testament had the power to infuriate him and send him into a three-day
rant should the mood strike him. He
loved the Gulf of Mexico on a placid day and is the only person I have ever met
who could comfortably wear long underwear on an August afternoon in
Florida. Holding a green blade of grass
in his hand, he would delight in arguing with you that it was surely blue, just
for the sake of arguing. And when he
loved you, lucky you, he loved you so big.
He shook hands like a gentleman should and when he finished hugging you,
you knew you’d been hugged. He was never
just good or o.k. but rather super terrific or fantastically marvelous –
adjectives were created just for him. He
loved a sleeping baby and insisted on socks to keep their feet warm. He alternated between loud and in-your-face
and absolutely silent but unflinchingly supportive. There was no grey area, no in-between, no
middle-of-the-road. He originated and
lived today’s popular “All In” tag line.
He loved a good pianist and a jazz singer’s smoky voice. He could make you feel as if you were the
only person in a crowded room and, when he let you get a word in edge-wise,
listened as if he were hanging on your every word. And dance, oh my, could he dance. When he called you by your first name, you
knew you were in trouble, but he could make “Darlin’” sound like a
lullaby. Never short on opinions or
convictions and questioning, always questioning. His baby sister was always his baby sister
no matter their age, and if God hung the moon, then surely Dolores must have
hung the stars. He loved his God, his church,
his children, and his alma-mater. He
loved Pensacola and the white house on the corner. And his wife?
Man did he love that woman. He
rode a train across country by himself at the age of five and drank Clorox by
accident – twice; the longer he drove, the more things he ran into, and he
remembered every word that his fourth grade teacher ever spoke; he could make a
seasoned priest question his religion and a grown woman giggle like a school
girl.
I met him for the
first time in the autumn of his life.
For this I am grateful.
Thank you, God, for making Granddaddy. And thank You for making him ours.
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