For Albert

Pepaw...as far back as I can remember. He was the gentle giant, standing at almost 6'5'' he towered above me my entire life. There were plenty of threats through childhood, but he never raised a hand to me. He taught me just about everything I know about dogs, and hunting. He encouraged me to chase my dreams, and led a Godly example before me. I remember days inside running around on all four's pretending I was a walker coon hound. I remember the excitement of turning the hounds loose after we'd released a coon, the cold mornings as we went out to check the traps. I remember the hours spent driving through the country looking for the dog that didn't come back after the hunt. There were endless days spent looking through the hunting magazines, cleaning guns. As I got older we fed the dogs every day(he had at minimum 8, at most over 20 depending on the time of year). As I grew up I began helping him build cages for the hounds, or I'd move them around when need be, I'd go and feed all of them so he could rest as his age began to show, for a few years I even helped him give shots, starting as the head-holder, and moving up to the shot-giver once his arthritis kicked in. After we moved out of Troup, I never saw him as much, not nearly enough, but I missed him for sure. Every time I would call and talk to him he would tell me not to get a boy friend here in San Antonio, that I needed to date a country boy and move back. I wish I would have visited more. I kick myself daily for that.
I remember clearly the night when it all started. I was sleeping soundly but suddenly I heard voices, and the garage door raise. I jumped out of bed and ran out of my room thinking my mom was going back to the hospital, but was told it was my grandfather who was in the hospital five hours away. I wish now I would have gone with them. Instead I stayed home to feed our own anmials and so that I could keep working, it was a sleepless night. Followed by a few more sleepless nights. Sunday morning I got up and my mom finally told me I needed to make my way there. His kidneys were failing, he'd had a heart attack and was going into heart failure. This was probably going to be it. I gathered my things and had a few errands to run before I left town. My mother told me not to drive fast, but I pushed 90mph the whole drive just praying that a cop wouldn't bother me and that the old man would make it long enough for me to say goodbye. There were times where I cried so hard I could barely see the road ahead of me but I kept driving. I finally got there and as soon as I got out of my car, I knew he was gone. My heart broke into a million pieces right there, but I didn't cry in front of my family. I kept my big girl face on and went about the day. Helping write his obituary was one of the hardest things I'd done in my life. We went and picked out the flowers, then the casket. The night of the visitation was hard on everyone. This was the first time I'd seen my father truly cry. But I still kept my big girl face on. Thinking back, maybe I should have "broke" sooner. I didn't really cry until the funeral, we played "When I get where I'm going" and that was it, I couldn't hold it in any longer. It was hard saying goodbye to someone who had been your everything for so long. He was my hero, my confidant, my inspiration. There were times I got in a fight with my mother as a child because I didn't want to leave his house. And he's gone. I'm still here, and I only hope that one day, I'll matter that much to a kid.....