Don’t Save It for the Funeral Home
The words we need to say while they can still hear them
Last week, I wrote about my Grandmama passing away and how much she meant to me and my family.
We laid her to rest this past weekend. My brother and cousins spoke at the funeral, and they did a great job putting into words the impact she had on all of us.
It was beautiful.
It was honest.
It was everything she deserved.
With that being said, shortly after she passed away, I visited my 93-year-old Grandaddy’s house. For the first time in my forty-eight years of life, I have one grandparent.
Karen and I bought him a new desk because the one he had was leaning hard. Pressed wood and carpet don’t mix well. Somebody tried to scoot it, and cheap craftsmanship and gravity did the rest.
He was in good spirits when we got there. Sitting there eating a piece of bologna sandwich, no doubt from the store across the road, flipping through pictures of Grandmama to display at the funeral home.
I wouldn’t take a dime from him for the desk. He argued with me like I knew he would, but he ultimately lost that argument. I owe him more than money can cover.
On the drive home, I started thinking about the tribute I wrote about Grandmama.
Then I started thinking about everything I would say about him one day.
And that’s when it hit me.
Why do we wait?
Why do we wait until someone is gone to say all the things we’ve been carrying for years?
Why do we give detailed, heartfelt tributes to a room full of people…
but not to the person while they’re still sitting across from us eating a bologna sandwich?
So I’m not waiting.
Why wait until he can’t read it…
when he’s still sitting across from me?
When I think of Duke Hamilton, I don’t think of a job.
I think of a man who works.
Not worked. Works.
As long as I can remember, he’s been moving. Wrecker service. Dirt and rock excavation. Gas stations. Clearing snow covered parking lots. If something needs doing, he’s doing it.
I got to ride in bulldozers and dump trucks with him growing up. That felt like riding with a king.
One time I took my car to his old garage to change the oil. I wanted him to show me how.
He ended up doing it himself.
Not because I couldn’t…
but because he enjoyed doing it.
I just stepped back and let him work.
That’s who he was and who he is.
Even now, just a week after his wife of 74 years passed away, he bought himself a used truck.
A project truck, he called it.
“I’m going to take the bed off and build a flatbed. I can do that.”
He says it like he’s talking about making a peanut butter and banana sandwich (his favorite).
And the truth is…I have no doubt he probably can.
He’s consistent.
You always know what you’re getting with him.
The name Duke Hamilton means something where I grew up. I remember when I would meet older people. When trying to connect dots for them, I would say, “I’m Duke Hamilton’s oldest grandson.” I was proud to say, “That’s my Grandaddy.” That name carries weight.
Still does.
Family matters to him. Taking care of your people matters. Doing what you say you’re going to do matters.
When I wouldn’t take money for the desk, he told my Mama, “He’s grown up, hasn't he?”
I don’t know if he realizes it, but that means more to me than anything he could hand me.
When I was sixteen, I had a fender bender and broke a taillight. I didn’t have the money to fix it, so I borrowed it from him. I was making $4.25 an hour, so I had the means to pay it, just not all at once.
I paid him back slowly, check by check.
When I gave him the last one, he went into his bedroom and came back holding every check I’d written. He handed them to me and said, “Tear them up.”
“You paid it back. That means a lot,” he said.
It was not about money.
That was about becoming a man.
He taught me more than he ever said out loud.
Work hard.
Take care of your family.
Keep your word.
I remember him playing softball with us in his backyard, running the bases like he’s one of us. I have never seen him as old.
Now I’m almost fifty, still out there playing with my kids, trying to squeeze every inning I can out of these legs.
If I’m honest…that comes from him.
“I’m going to work until I can’t.”
That may not be something he ever said directly, but he lives it every day.
Life hasn’t been easy on him.
In 1991, he lost his youngest son, Tracy.
Now he’s walking through life without his wife.
And yet…he keeps going.
Not because it’s easy.
Because his family still needs him.
That’s strength.
That’s grace.
That’s a man.
When I look at my own life, I see pieces of him everywhere.
The way I work.
The way I show up for my family.
The way I try to love my wife well.
People might call it old school.
I call it right.
So let me say this while you can hear it.
You’re a good man, Duke Hamilton.
I’m better because I got to watch you up close my whole life.
I know you’d probably say you’ve had your missteps.
But I see the corrections.
I see the effort.
I see the consistency.
And it matters.
It all matters.
And for the rest of you reading this…
Don’t wait.
Don’t save your best words for a funeral home.
Don’t say it to a room full of people who already agree with you.
Say it to the person.
Tell them why they matter.
Tell them what they do right.
Tell them how they shape you.
Give them the evidence.
They might need it more than you realize.
Good word, Maury! I've shared similar sentiments at memorials and in counseling sessions. Good on ya!
This is beautiful! Thank you for sharing. So many times we are so involved in what we are doing, that we forget to thank those that made it possible for us through lessons, times, experience, and just being there.