Today my grandfather, Thomas Alexander Houston II, known to most as "Pop Tom," passed away after a relatively short but difficult battle with cancer. These were the only images I had on hand that reminded me of him. Both are taken at one of his favorite places, High Hampton Inn, in Cashiers, NC, where we had our annual family reunion.
After hearing that he had a massive spot on his lung, he opted not to take chemotherapy. We all knew that, at 90 years old, this was pretty much his death sentence. But even though I knew that, and even though I had that news a few months ago, I still didn't manage to send him that letter I'd been planning to write. So cliche, but you just can't put off things like that. Eventually procrastination really kicks you in the ass.
Earlier this year I wrote a tribute to him on this blog, and I said much of what's on my mind now. In 90 years, that man truly lived -- played golf and swam almost every day up until about five years ago. He was fierce and intense, both in love and anger. He never rode the fence. That much I learned from him. I guess as humans go, you really couldn't find a better one.
I wish I could say I was the granddaughter he wanted, the one he deserved. And sometimes I was I suppose. But lately, in the last fifteen years or so, I really wasn't. At this point I don't even remember all the things that kept me from loving him the way I should've. I know they seemed important at the time, righteous even. But now they seem like such a pile of little things, just a scrap pile of reasons not to make myself vulnerable one more time. He deserved to know how much I loved him, how much his ways and spirit shaped me. Houstons are tough, Houstons endure, Houstons get things done, Houstons go after what they want full speed ahead. Houstons are beautiful.
Sometimes, Houstons are weaker than they'd like to be, but I suppose in the end, Houstons try to let go gracefully.
