Some stories write themselves; others can’t be written no matter how hard I try. And then there are those that I don’t want to write, would give anything not to have to write…and yet there they are standing right in front of me and insisting that there is nothing to do but buck up and write them.
So, I write and I tell you that today we say goodbye to one of the biggest men I have ever known, ever been privileged to call family. Oh, Merlin Davis wasn’t physically big, didn’t stand much taller than I do, didn’t have a big booming voice, didn’t even have two arms, but mark my words…Merlin Davis was a big man in Comanche County where he spent all of his 94 years.
If you don’t believe me, all you have to do is look at the book where recently well over 100 people signed in to show that they attended his 94th birthday party…94…an age where most are forgotten by all but their closest family, but not Merlin. I knew as we sat that day, me stealing the nuts from his plate, that we had reached the end, that he had kept himself alive only until he could celebrate one more party with his many, many friends.
And so today, the old workshop is silent, no hammer ringing out the sound that tells the world that the man way too old to work is still working.
And the Davis family grieves, not for the very sick man who was so ready to go Home, but for the days that will never come again…and yet we knew, and we were able to say our goodbyes in so many ways, and then….as I recently made my exit, I impulsively stopped my vehicle long enough to snap a goodbye photo to the old place where my little girl memories of homemade ice cream and family mingle sweetly together, knowing yet another chapter of life has come to an end.