My memories of my grandfather, Raymond E. Sumpter, are few. They float through my mind like rare gems. Some of them are shining and happy, but others are tarnished by pain or sadness of the time. They are precious to me all the same.  

I can picture the landscape where I followed my grandfather, dad and younger brother through the trees and vehicles at a local car show and remember celebrating my 12th birthday with my grandma and grandpa when they came to visit. I see their little white camper perched on top of a pickup that seemed far too small to carry its weight, but somehow always did. I remember watching the fireworks show on the 4th of July and playing dominos together around the kitchen table.

Most of all, I remember the winter holidays. Before I was in high school, my family had lived too far away to see my grandparents often. We moved closer to them for the first time that I could remember; just one state away. After that, holiday dinners with the grandparents became a renewed household tradition. Typically, we would arrive a few days early to spend time with them before the annual feasting began. I sat on the couch and listened as my parents and grandparents told stories and talked about various family members over the years.

Those nights, we would sleep on blankets on the floor, waiting for the big day to arrive when family would flood the house. Sometimes, we would travel to my aunts for the meal. Food and loving family would be everywhere. We would eat until we were every bit as stuffed as the turkey and then wait until later to fill ourselves with the pecan, pumpkin, coconut cream and apple pies my grandma made. No big family meal was complete without them.

I am only starting to realize how challenging these events must have been for my grandpa. He had gone through several surgeries while battling cancer. As a result, it was hard for him to join in the festivities and he was unintentionally excluded because he used a feeding tube. He would often spend the time of our visits in his office watching his favorite television shows. No matter what, he would always come up to us, hug us and say he loved us, but I found myself uncertain of what to say or do next. I was ashamed to admit to myself, let alone to him, that I often had trouble understanding what he said because the surgeries had altered his voice. I was not always sure what to say to him or how to cross the age barrier, so I relied on small talk about the shows he was watching and about what I had been doing.

My grandpa passed away during my senior year of high school. In the wake of his passing, I remember wishing fervently that I had been better able to connect with him and that I had been more of what I thought a good granddaughter should be. When I stood up to speak during the sharing time at his funeral service, there was one memory that stood out to me. No matter what – even when he was in the hospital – he had always asked about me. He wanted to hear how I was doing, what I had been up to and what my plans were. His actions showed that he loved his family and wanted what was best for all of us, including me. So, I shared that memory. 

The legacy that my grandpa left me was one of selfless love and a genuine interest in the lives of others. He was a hard worker and military veteran with kindness at his core. It is what defined his marriage of 55 years to my grandmother Vivian Sumpter, and it is clearly the ethic with which they both raised their three children: my mother Connie and my aunts Martha and Theresa. His love, kindness and hardworking spirit have touched and blessed my life in so many ways. 

So, while it is true that my memories of my grandpa are few, they are also precious, because they remind me to live out his legacy – one of love and kindness.

And to me, that is the best memory of all.