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The “C” Stands for Careful other into the tub. I moved in a trance as I helped him wash, lifted him out of the tub, toweled him dry and dressed him. I never looked at Grampa again, without a f lash of that day in the bathroom. He had never seemed mortal to me. His strength of character was still there, but now I knew that he would die. I prayed hard that night, asking God to relieve Grampa’s pain and make him well and strong again. As I look back now, I can see that my prayers were answered. Grampa was not physically healed, but he had a way of living with his pain and making others forget about his discomfort. He had a big, green upholstered chair near the front door in the living room where he sat most of the day. The chair was built up on risers so he would not have far to go when he wanted to stand. When he did, he would call to me, “Dickie, get me my sticks.” With a cane in each hand, he would sit in the chair and stare across the room, and then he would start to whistle, not really a tune, just a long, high note. With a shove of his still powerful arms, he would vault up on his canes. The whistling did not cover the sharp, unoiled sound of his joints grinding together as he rose. He would stand for a moment, his face red and the whistle growing thin, until the wave of pain would pass. He would then look at me and say, “You hungry? I’m starved. Let’s 40

Profile for Tidewater Times

July 2013 ttimes web magazine  

Tidewater Times July 2013

July 2013 ttimes web magazine  

Tidewater Times July 2013