Guest Post By Alex Culpepper
On a quiet early morning March 2, 2020, Grandaddy Perry took his final breath. It was in the same house where he had spent so many years shaping my life and the lives of those who loved him. The funeral home workers arrived in the early morning hours with a bag of supplies and the dreaded stretcher that would strip us of his presence.
The weight of the moment settled heavy in the dining room as they went to carefully retrieve his body. The absence of his presence weighed heavy on our hearts, but even more, we felt a cloud of grief as we reflected on his long, painful journey with Alzheimer’s disease. A disease that slowly stole pieces of him for five years leading up to that morning.
Grandaddy’s Alzheimer’s wasn’t a sudden occurrence. It began gradually, almost unnoticed. At first, there were little things, like misplaced glasses, incomplete tasks, or failing to recall a phone number he had dialed many times before. We would often laugh it off, saying, “He’s just forgetful,” or “He’s getting older.” But even in those early days, I noticed how he would repeat the same joke saying, “If pork is so unhealthy why don’t pigs get sick?”
Concern began to grow as he would quietly ask Mamaw the names of people he had known his entire life. We watched as all the small things began to add up, and little by little the disease stole the resolute man that was once so full of life. As the workers moved slowly past us, wheeling his earthly body down the hallway, memories began flooding my mind triggering many moments of love, laughter, and wisdom that I would carry with me forever. Grandaddy played a vital role in shaping me into the man I am today. His love for the Lord, our family, baseball, and song-writing brought lessons that I will carry with me for the rest of my life.
Grandaddy’s home, affectionately called “Mamaw’s House”, had always been the center of my childhood. It was a sanctuary where I found comfort and the rhythm of everyday life. You could find my brother and I there every afternoon after school and nearly every summer weekday. Grandaddy’s presence was extensive on those familiar five acres. The pride he had for his property was evident in the time he dedicated to making sure it remained the refuge we all loved so deeply.
I can still picture the 1958 Ford tractor he drove in the hot summer heat to cut the fields surrounding the house. It’s rusted yellow bush-hog PTO attachment hummed with steady force as the rhythmic sound of turning blades filled the air. I can hear the growl of the tired engine echoing across the yard as it met the earth with a purpose. There was Grandaddy riding high, perched on the seat in his faded blue jeans, tattered flannel, and worn baseball cap.
Some days he would pick me up from school in his sunburnt blue 1980’s Dodge van, with its well-worn cloth bench seats and lap seatbelts. The van always had a musty odor mixed with faint gasoline fumes. I never told him how nauseous I felt in the backseat, as the swaying ride and gasoline smell stirred my stomach. He must have known, but I never complained. As he focused on the journey ahead, he would whistle an unrecognizable tune through his teeth.
It was in those unremarkable drives that I learned how to handle some of life’s discomforts without making a fuss. Grandaddy never hurried or voiced a complaint. His life flowed like a steady stream focused on what mattered most, his faith, family, and being honorable in all things.
Grandaddy’s love for baseball came alive in the back fields behind Mamaw’s House. The afternoon sun would cast long shadows from the Georgia pines as he geared up to practice. He would grab his worn-out leather glove, baseball, and bat eagerly as he led me and my brother outside to play. Baseball wasn’t just a game to him, it was a language, a way of life, a bond that tied the two us together. Our ballfield was barely an acre in size, complete with a makeshift plywood backstop held up by an old mini refrigerator.
As we honed our skills and strived to achieve his expectations, Grandaddy’s wisdom was unknowingly being poured into us. I can still hear his voice across the ballfield, “If you touch it, you catch it!” At the time, I didn’t realize how much those words would mean to me later in life. I’ve come to know that his words weren’t just about baseball. It was a phrase that had implications for all areas of life. This steady mantra grew beyond baseball, and became more about being present, committed, and having the courage to face whatever may come my way. Even when the baseball would come fast or bounced unpredictably off the ground, I had to believe that I could catch it and fully commit to facing the oncoming challenge.
He applied the “You touch it, you catch it” philosophy in all areas of his life. It was fully embodied in the condition of his wedding ring. What had once been a flawless solid gold band,was now bent and mangled from years of catching pop flies and line drives or working on his tractor. It was a testament of his love for his wife and dedication to the life they built together. Every dent and bend showed his determination to be the man he promised her he would be. The ring, like him, had seen so much life, from the highest mountain tops to the deepest valleys and everything in-between. It represented a life lived to the fullest, a life well lived and a love that endured until he took his last breath.
On the occasions that Grandaddy was not on the tractor or throwing the baseball around, he would sit with his acoustic guitar in hand. I remember the way he would attack the strings as he forcefully strummed his guitar. His playing of familiar songs and hymns would fill the air of the living room with sweet sounds and a warm tones. He was a gifted songwriter. His songs were unique, clever, and often inspired by true stories. His hands would hug the guitar’s neck with ease, mimicking the melodies of his 1950’s youth. My fingers small and uncoordinated, struggled to form the right chord positions on the neck.
Grandaddy never rushed me or showed an ounce of frustration. Instead, he was patient and told me, “You’ll never be a true guitar player until you learn how to play the Wildwood Flower.” A sacred country-western song made famous by the Carter family. I didn’t fully understand then, but now I realize he was teaching me more than just how to play a song. He was teaching me that dedication and mastery, in music only comes through discipline, patience, and practice.
Grandaddy also instilled the values of deep faith within me. His relationship with Jesus was not a weekend activity, but the bedrock of his life. It was something that was lived out daily in his actions, words, and treatment of people. I can still see him sitting in his favorite spot on the grey sectional couch with his Bible open in his lap and his cracked weathered hands resting gently on the pages. His beloved Bible had been worn from years of faithful use, and were key to his relationship Jesus. He would study each verse with precision and care, treasuring it deep in his heart. His faithful love for Jesus and the example he modeled helped me establish the foundation for my own relationship with Christ.
Grandaddy and Mamaw’s House was more than just a place to stay, it was where I learned to be kind, to be patient, and to love fully. The orange shag carpet in the living room, the smell of Mamaw’s cooking drifting from the kitchen, and the voice of Skip Caray announcing the play-by-play action of the Braves game playing on the woodgrain tv in the living room were all interwoven pieces of the tapestry of my memories.
I felt deep emptiness as my father, mother, brother and I stood in the dining room and watched the funeral home workers wheel Grandaddy out the back door one last time on that early March morning. I couldn’t help but wonder, was it this familiar red-brick home with the washed-out gravel driveway that held the memories?
As time has passed, I have learned that my memories aren’t contained in the house, but they are in the moments spent with him. The lessons learned and the wisdom acquired, all remain with me even though I do not walk down the hallways or run in the fields anymore. I still hear his words in my mind, cheering me on from the sidelines, offering support when I need it most.
Grandaddy Perry may have physically left this world on March 2, 2020, but every day he lives on, in, and through me. He is in the guitar I play every week as I lead worship, in the Bible verses I read daily, and in the way I navigate life. When I slip on my leather baseball glove, ready for the ball to come, I hear him once again call out “If you touch it, you catch it!”
I find comfort in the thought that perhaps in Heaven, there is a softball league where Grandaddy is wearing a number eighteen jersey playing the game he loved in the presence of our Savior. And when my time comes in death or rapture, I know we’ll pick up right where we left off laughing, living, and worshipping together on that heavenly shore. Until that day comes, I carry Grandaddy with me. I know that each lesson he taught me will never fade but will be carried on by my daughters who share his last name.
Though Grandaddy may be gone from this world, he will never truly leave because of the pieces of his life he gave. Still quietly guiding me through the innings of life…
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Dirt Road Diaries 