I'm sorry I'm not there. Selfishly, I'm sorry I'm not there. I'm sorry I can't see the outpouring of respect for this man I've loved so much. And because there was always something about my grandpa that seemed like the center of the world. I used to run away from home when I was little, and I always ran to the same place. I wish I could run there now. The center of the world. I remember my grandpa's birthday, hundreds of people coming from all over the place. I remember being so amazed by that gravity, the craziness of so many so different people being drawn so far to celebrate this one man. Not amazed because it didn't make sense, but amazed that I wasn't the only one who felt it. Because for a man who had hundreds of people adore him, I never once ever felt like I wasn’t the most important person in his life. I know I'm not alone in that. I also hadn't know before then that you could have porta-potties at a private residence. That also seemed a little crazy. You've got a rogue character like Johnny Foard and a few hundred of his closest friends, you don't want them running willy-nilly in your house, I understand, but it was surprising. He was the center of the world. I've never felt so elevated, so much more confident, so much more at ease, just by someone's presence. I always felt better around him. And so often that's all I was, only around him. We used to wake up early and drive out into the country to check traps and shook coyotes and all good things. We'd spend hours and hours together. He could talk about anything. I remember thinking that it was a bit crazy how well he understood me. He definitely had his great stories, and I'm sure you'll hear some today. But so often we'd sit in silence. He was always comfortable with silence, which I think is a high compliment. I catch myself now switching on music or tv or a movie, anything to make noise. And I think of sitting in his shop for hours in silence with him, his truck for hours with him, coyote hunting for hours with him always with these long, comfortable silences. It was always easy to be at ease with him. I imagine there was music in his head then. I imagine there always was. And I think of his music, his silence, the way we all always looked to him, how he was always the center of the world. He was always listening. He carried peace with him, happiness. He lived a long good life and died in the best way possible. I'm sorry I can't be there now, and I'm sad that I won't see him again, but there is no way to pretend that this amazing man hasn't been an amazing presence in my life, more amazing than I deserved, more amazing than any could. I'm glad for his peace now, his silence, the eternal music. I'll miss him forever. And I think we'll all agree that he was a good, kind man. I don't know, though, if it's really widely known that he also had very ticklish feet. Maybe there's a connection there, I don't know. I discovered this as a toddler, and put that poor man through hell. When I used to stay with my grandparents, once I was bored with listening to the crickets, I'd kinda sneak down and tickle his feet. I don't know how he felt being woken up like this, but it brought me tremendous joy. Still to this day it makes me smile to remember it. I don't know how I survived shenanigans like this, but he was a patient man.
A good man, a patient man.
That said, I also remember one day out with him, checking coyote traps. In one of them we'd caught a badger. So, we shot it in the head and threw it in the back of the truck. A little farther down the road we came to the next trap, got out checked it, replaced the bait. As we were walking back to the truck, though, we heard this scratching sound, and then this horrible high-pitched growling. The badger, it seemed, was still alive.
So I'm standing there, I'm too little to see into the back of the truck, so I'm just getting the sounds, and my grandpa is standing up on the back tire, with a baseball bat, just wailing on this poor animal until it's finally quiet. A kind man, a generous man. But I think I can tell you in confidence here today, he evinced no deep love for that badger. He drug it out of the back of the truck and shot it again. Throws it back in the truck bed. Soon, we can hear from the front seats that this badger has been resurrected again. Pull over, more clubbing, more shooting. He poked it with the bat just to make sure it's dead. It comes back to life. "Well hell," he says, which was his catchphrase. So we killed it a few more times, though I'm not 100 percent confident that it's not limping around out there somewhere today. He'd definitely won our respect. Of course he had. That much intense passion for life is hard not to admire. The badger had more than his fair share. He was no Johnny Foard, but still.
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