Editor’s note: The first in a two-part series by Athens author and occasional contributor Bill Hunt about his grandfather. Part II will appear in Wednesday’s edition of The News Courier.

My grandfather, Thomas Monroe Hunt, had lived with us since before 1934, the year I was born. In those days, we had time for everything, even taking care of the old people in our family.

Grandfather was born in 1859 and remembered seeing soldiers, weary and wounded, still in bloody, ragged clothes as they made their way back to their families when the Civil War ended. He said he was afraid of some of them because they were sad and angry, suffering with every breath or step they took. All of them, it seemed, carried on their backs the burden of defeat. Many were in their teens, 20s and 30s, but already old men. Grandfather also remembered all of the other wars our country had fought since he was born. I, at the age of 7 or 8, figured he knew everything there was to know about wars and almost everything about dying, too.

When I knew him well, from the late 1930s until he died in 1945, he was a reader devoted to the Sunday Times Picayune from New Orleans, which arrived in the mail on Mondays. Along with his Bible, he read the Picayune every day until the next Monday when another one came. But, most of his hours during World War II were spent listening to news on his big Zenith radio with its round, glass face with strange numbers, levers and knobs he forbade me to touch.

His Zenith was the most important thing in our house, something he guarded and protected. In front of the big radio, Grandfather sat in a large, red chair. My place was straddling one arm of the chair, often pretending to be a rodeo bull rider. When Walter Winchell sounded an alarm, or something else important came over the Zenith, he’d squeeze my hand to stop my chatter.

Given the great importance of the war raging around the world in the early forties, Grandfather spoke often about how wars change people and cultures, everywhere, all over the world — even people in places like ours, a tiny spot in a big country, hidden in the back woods of Louisiana.

My dad was a farmer, the overseer of a sugarcane plantation, and we were a million miles away from all the places they talked about on the Zenith. But, every night we pulled down our green shades to stop the light so the Germans or Japanese couldn’t find us. We were ordinary people, strong, a big family, but like everybody else, at times we were fragile and afraid the war might hit home with dreadful news about an uncle or cousin soldier or a neighbor’s son.

The big trunk

At age 86, Grandfather often said he had had a good life, a wonderful woman to love and love him back, and many kids. God, he said, had given him years more than what the Bible had promised. In my mind, I figured he even had a good death, probably the way he would have wanted it to be, and if he could miraculously come back, he’d tell me that; a death with all his kids and many grandkids standing beside his bed covered over in white pillows and white blankets.

Grandfather had a lot of fine stuff in him, a vast knowledge of how the world worked, how people got along in life, how to survive when times were hard, but he never talked about any of those things except at special times with special people. That made him a special person to me, because I was sure I was a special person to him.

He lived in a nicely adorned bedroom where everyone had to knock and be invited in. It was in his room that he read his books and studied, where old Time Picayunes lay neatly stacked on a table in the corner, and clippings were kept in a well-worn Bible, handy on a table by his bed. Also on the table, were letters from his grandchildren soldiers, letters neatly stacked and tied with a shoe string. Often, he took the letters out to re-read them while news came over his Zenith.

One of my responsibilities was to pull-off his Red Wings in the evening, help him into his gown, then make sure he was well-tucked into his big feather bed and a slop jar was nearby. At the foot of the bed sat a very large prize, a black leather trunk filled with a lifetime of personal belongings, remnants of a stylish young man of the 1870s, pictures and mementoes of a father of 11 children, and a few items left over from working days — small hand tools, several knives and two pistols.

Grandfather’s big trunk was more important to me than the Zenith, but only on winter days while he sat in front of the fireplace would he allow me to cautiously explore inside the trunk while he watched. With every item I picked up, I’d glance to grandfather, anticipating that he had a story to tell about it. Some stories I’d heard several times, but it didn’t matter because every one of them was exciting all over again, to me and to him.

The end

On a day in late October 1945, he suggested going to Gold Dust, about 10 miles down the road, to his oldest daughter’s house to spend a few days. My sister drove him there, with me riding shotgun. A few days later, my father told us Grandfather had suffered a heart attack.

Heavy clouds hung low in the sky, and a misty rain fell steadily through cool air, which, in my mind, added mysticism to the ritual for which our family was readying itself, a ritual I knew somewhat because my older brother had died only 18 months before.

My dad’s 10 siblings began arriving within hours of being told of Grandfather’s situation. They sat in front of fireplaces, ate around kitchen tables, drank coffee and talked about family while their children and grandchildren listened. During these conversations, every person was reinstated on a branch somewhere in the family tree.

For the next few days, Grandfather clung to life only by what his own body provided. He was visited every day by a country doctor who had delivered many of the grandchildren. My aunts and uncles cared for Grandfather’s every need, taking turns throughout the days and nights.

On the third day, the doctor informed the family that Grandfather might leave us within hours. That afternoon, the ritual peaked when every member of the family stood in line to go individually to Grandfather’s bedside, hold his hand and bid him goodbye.

I was nearly 11 years old and dreadfully hated the idea of what was going on with no one there to explain it to me. I was lost in what was happening in this big family, which included so many old people I’d only heard of, and younger people and kids, many of whom were strangers to me, from faraway places like Baton Rouge, Houston and San Antonio. I knew Grandfather was the one who would have explained it to me had he been able to return to his red chair in front of the Zenith.

When my turn came, I stood beside his bed, small and helpless and about to cry. I shook for reasons I didn’t understand, then, after a few seconds, one of my aunts told me to place my hand on grandfather’s. The feel was familiar and soothing, and I felt the gentle kindness that flowed easily from him to me.

I looked into his deep-set gray eyes. He looked at me, his lips moving only enough to resemble a smile. He squeezed my hand ever so slightly, and I leaned closer to hear but couldn’t. I wanted him to say I could have his big trunk from his room, but he didn’t. Until I touched his hand, I had been nervously fingering the tear in the sleeve of my windbreaker. “Goodbye,” I said.

That night, in late October 1945, Grandfather died. He was 86.

— See Wednesday’s edition of The News Courier for the conclusion of this story.