Little Debbies with Louis

Grief didn’t show up when my Granddaddy died.
It came later—with the thud of dirt on the casket and a lifetime of feelings I never knew I buried.

Chapter Two

Chapter 2: Little Debbies with Louis

By age seven, I knew and used every four-letter swear word in the book. I had traded my Bible for a public school Trapper Keeper, and there was no turning back.

From Bible to Bus Rides

Starting second grade at Prattville Primary was scary and exciting. The school bus became a rolling classroom, learning from kids aged five to nineteen. After being molded into the perfect pious follower, public school was my first experience as a rule-breaker. This would soon continue at home.

Enter: Afternoons with Granddaddy Louis.

Granddaddy was a towering figure, his thin frame wrapped in faded overalls that smelled faintly of engine grease and cigarettes.

Back in the day, Granddaddy was the gravity we orbited around. He’d bought three acres where Mom and my Aunt Dee had set up their trailers. My Uncle Beanie lived with him in a dark cabin on the property surrounded by Loblolly Pines.

I wonder to this day, if Granddaddy hadn't owned that land, where would we have lived?

The Driveway Refuge

His house was a refuge. It was the only place on the property cemented to the ground. We ran to Granddaddy's anytime there was a major storm or tornado coming through.

Being farthest from school, we were the kids who got picked up first and the last to get dropped off. After the 90-minute bus ride home, we’d run to the end of Granddaddy’s driveway, just down the hill from our trailer.

“Y’all hungry?” he’d ask. Did he know we hadn’t eaten since our free lunch at 11:30am?

His quiet presence filled the tiny log cabin. Granddaddy had stormed Normandy in World War II, but you’d never guess it from the way he moved through life—slow, deliberate, and impossibly calm.

Sugar and Secrets

His love didn’t announce itself in grand gestures; it slipped into the small moments, like a package of Nutter Butters and Little Debbie cakes lined up with a glass of milk just for us. Granddaddy’s soft chuckle filled the room as we tore into the wrappers like Christmas morning.

We’d settle onto the worn couch, crumbs pressed to our lips and cheeks, as The Little Rascals flickered in black and white on the old TV. It was our quiet haven, a bridge between the noise of school and the chaos waiting at home.

Mom never held a steady job for long. I remember her working at the gas station, stocking shelves at Walmart, and waiting tables. She ran a militant household, complete with yet another set of rules. Her #1 commandment: No sugar before dinner.

Come supper time, she’d yell from the top of the hill: “Stop giving those kids that sugar shit, Daddy!”

He’d grin, unbothered, and sneak us one more treat before sending us on our way, sticky-fingered and full of secrets.

I was nine when Granddaddy died. At first, I didn’t shed a single tear. This stoicism was typical for me. Even at that age, my approach to emotion was: bury it.

Holding Mom’s hand at the funeral, my chest felt like the Earth itself was pressing down on me. It was like I didn’t know how to get the feelings out.

A Quiet Goodbye

But then came the first shovel full of dirt onto the casket. The sharp, hollow sound cracked open my nine-year-old heart. The sobs spilled out, wild and unstoppable, as if I’d been holding back a lifetime of sorrow without realizing it.

Grief is Love with Nowhere to Go

It wasn’t until years later that I realized how much we’d been left to soothe ourselves. Mom had her own grief and overwhelm to manage, which some would say came out in physical outbursts at our smallest missteps or mistakes. She had little room to teach us how to carry our emotions.

Even now, Nutter Butters are my favorite guilty pleasure—not just a cookie, but a small, sweet memory of the man who made us feel cared for without ever needing to say it.

Losing Granddaddy was more than losing our only father figure: it was losing the one constant in our ever-shifting world. His absence left a void for the rest of our lives. There is a saying that grief is just love with nowhere to go.

Some glad morning when this life is over

I'll fly away

To a home on God's celestial shore

I'll fly away

I'll fly away, oh, Glory

I'll fly away

When I die, Hallelujah, by and by

I'll fly away

• I’ll Fly Away by Albert E. Brumley

THE EXPERT GENERALIST LESSON: FEEL YOUR FEELINGS

Love doesn't always need words and grief doesn't either. If you stuff your feelings down (and distract, which is all too common today), they’ll inevitably come up down the road in a way no amount of Nutter Butters can fix. Holding in emotions doesn’t protect you; it harms you.

Bottom line: feel it to fix it.

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