Grandpa Woods died Monday, May 17 at 8:50 a.m. He was 90 years old, and he was my sweetheart. He loved Grandma, his kids, his grandkids and great-grandkids, and he loved to fish. He loved being outside, and he had a garden right up until this year. Grandpa showed people how to love completely and unconditionally. The world is a better place for him having been here.
Have you ever heard a smile in someone's voice? My Grandpa has a voice like that, with a southern accent to match. He was born in January, 1920 in West Point, Mississippi, to Ozella Viola and Lee Bryan Woods.
He's always been one of my best fellas. He had long since passed the top of Grandma's and my Sweetheart Scale, although he has an ornery streak. I think he learned early that if you have a drawl that can melt a girl's heart, she'll forgive you for anything.
One of my favorite stories about Grandpa happened when I was about seven. I was hanging out in the basement workshop with him and my dad while they worked on this outboard motor. I SO wanted to help, and after asking several times, "Can I help now?," Dad finally called me over to the motor. "Okay, hon," he said, "when I tell you, you grab ahold of this spark plug and see if it's firing." I was so excited. "OK!," I said, reaching for the spark plug, only to have Grandpa smack my hand out of the way.
Before I could work up the breath to cry, Grandpa said, "Kirby Lee!" (two words, pronounced as one at the time), "Don't you do that to her!" The "Don't you do that to her" came out at the same time as Dad's "I wasn't going to let her do it!"
I didn't know what was going on, and I had those big old alligator tears welling up. But Grandpa reached down, picked me up, and said "Honey-babe, that would have knocked you plumb flat." You should know, Grandpa was the only man who could - then or now - get away with calling me 'honey-babe' - with the possible exception of my Dad.
Grandpa hit the top of my sweetheart scale when he saved me from being knocked plumb flat, and when he talked to my dad like NOBODY ever talks to my dad.
Earlier that night I had helped Mom make some rolls. I took special care with Grandpa's. A seven-year-old's "special care" involves working the dough so much that any kind of leavening is effectively eradicated. I was so excited to take the rolls downstairs when they were done. I handed Grandpa his roll with such pride, and told him I made it special for him.
Grandpa took a bite of the rock-hard, flat, and slightly burned piece of bread, he said, "I declare, this is one of the finest rolls I have ever eaten.
And with that, he went over the top of the Sweetheart Scale, where he will always be.
He's always been one of my best fellas. He had long since passed the top of Grandma's and my Sweetheart Scale, although he has an ornery streak. I think he learned early that if you have a drawl that can melt a girl's heart, she'll forgive you for anything.
One of my favorite stories about Grandpa happened when I was about seven. I was hanging out in the basement workshop with him and my dad while they worked on this outboard motor. I SO wanted to help, and after asking several times, "Can I help now?," Dad finally called me over to the motor. "Okay, hon," he said, "when I tell you, you grab ahold of this spark plug and see if it's firing." I was so excited. "OK!," I said, reaching for the spark plug, only to have Grandpa smack my hand out of the way.
Before I could work up the breath to cry, Grandpa said, "Kirby Lee!" (two words, pronounced as one at the time), "Don't you do that to her!" The "Don't you do that to her" came out at the same time as Dad's "I wasn't going to let her do it!"
I didn't know what was going on, and I had those big old alligator tears welling up. But Grandpa reached down, picked me up, and said "Honey-babe, that would have knocked you plumb flat." You should know, Grandpa was the only man who could - then or now - get away with calling me 'honey-babe' - with the possible exception of my Dad.
Grandpa hit the top of my sweetheart scale when he saved me from being knocked plumb flat, and when he talked to my dad like NOBODY ever talks to my dad.
Earlier that night I had helped Mom make some rolls. I took special care with Grandpa's. A seven-year-old's "special care" involves working the dough so much that any kind of leavening is effectively eradicated. I was so excited to take the rolls downstairs when they were done. I handed Grandpa his roll with such pride, and told him I made it special for him.
Grandpa took a bite of the rock-hard, flat, and slightly burned piece of bread, he said, "I declare, this is one of the finest rolls I have ever eaten.
And with that, he went over the top of the Sweetheart Scale, where he will always be.
