While I’m on the subject of West Virginians, my mom who I have spoken of before, taught me many things about living, dying and all the stuff in between.

Especially pivotal moments to go into action were life and death. She’d remind me there are two things you can’t do for yourself, bring yourself into this world or carry yourself out, and those are times we need to pitch in and help others.

Since I was the baby of the family, I don’t remember many dinners we made to take to new mothers but I do remember the funerals. Whether you knew what to say or what to bring, the main thing was to show up with something–a pineapple upside down cake, potato salad, deviled eggs–hug a lot and talk about the person who died.  Preferably remember a funny anecdote they were involved in or something they said.

Nothing sad people like more than remembering someone they’ve lost with a smile.

My mom’s dad, Grandpa Kyle, was the king of telling a good tale on someone.  Even himself. He would start in about some “old boy” who was probably half his age since he lived to be 103, but to him everyone was always older.  Probably why he lived so long.  He always had an old pal to catch up with.

Anyway, he would begin a story and before he could get to the punch line, he would start laughing.  He would try to keep the rhythm of the story but the point was garbled in his chuckles that soon led to tears.  He was a laugh until you cry guy. My mom’s whole side of the family is. It’s a very endearing quality actually.

He’d hike himself up on his right thigh and pull out the hanky he always kept in his left hip pocket, remove his wire rim glasses, carefully one ear and then the other, wipe his tears and then shine his glasses, since they were already off and in his hands, and keep on going until we had all lost the point of the story but were all caught up in his tears of laughter.

Toward the end of his time on this earth, he asked my mom’s sister, Aunt Mary, why the people in the assisted living (which he didn’t go to until he was over 100) all called him Ed.

The tale he heard went something like this:

“Because, dad, that’s your name.  You are 103 years old.  You were born in 1886 and it is now 1989.   You saw a time where there were no gas powered cars, you witnessed the First Transcontinental Railroad and lived through eight states being added to the union. You and your brother, an architect, built many of the finest buildings in this town including your church, where you spent 80 some years in the choir.  You lost a wife and your mother in one week during the flu epidemic of 1918.  Left with four children, including a six week old baby, you moved in with your sister and allowed your architect brother, who was childless, to adopt your baby daughter.  She calls him Dad and you Pop and feels equal affection for you both. You went on to marry two more times and have three more children. You have outlived all your wives and a few of your children.  You are a carpenter and have worked on your own, for yourself, most of your life. You can still hammer a straight nail and strike a plumb line.”

When she finished, Grandpa, who had never cursed a single word in his life, crossed his hands on his chest, shut his eyes and said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

My brother, who spent many hours with  Grandpa in his workshop or just shooting the breeze,  spoke at his funeral.  I am sure he thought about that idea carefully and assumed it would not be a daunting task as Grandpa had lived such a full and and unnaturally long life. He had planned, I am sure, to tell tales of Grandpa’s escapades, his joy for all things great and small, and his sincere interest in anyone and everyone that no doubt kept him around so long.  I’m sure my brother thought he, too, might bring tears of laughter channeling the Kyle gene and being a great storyteller himself.

But he surprised himself because he cried tears of grief remembering this wonderful and unusual man.  And I learned a couple things that day.

Unexpected tears are the best, most honest you will ever shed. And no matter how long you have someone in your life, it is never so long you are ready to give them up.

My sweet mama is inching up on 90.  My brother can be an old curmudgeon but I know I will miss him terribly if I am still around when he is gone. I just had a big birthday that had a “O” in it. And I don’t know how I became a grandmother when I still feel like the grandchild myself.

I’m not sure if I want to laugh or cry at this moment. Maybe in Kyle style, I’ll do a little of both.