Adios, Grandpa Tex.

Grandpa Tex died yesterday. He was 96.

I finally started laughing yesterday when I thought about what they would do with his glass eye. If I had my druthers, I'd keep it in a velvet box. Unfortunately, I don't think anyone else would think it was as funny as I do. So I guess I'll just let it go with him.

Grandpa Tex was an ornery, difficult, opinionated, loud, mean, controlling old man. He was also funny, kind, sensitive, observant, wise, silly, mischievous, generous and wonderful. The caricature of a loud-mouthed Texan, but genuine. He couldn't be anything but who he was.

No one was allowed to adjust the air conditioning in his house. Ever. There has never been another human being who ate more biscuits. At every meal, there were biscuits and jelly. He fried eggs in an inch of bacon grease in a cast iron skillet older than I am. He liked to crush up crackers or cornbread and put them in a tall glass of buttermilk.

I was lucky. He was nicer to the girls and the grandkids, and being a girl grandkid exempted me from his tirades. I also never brought home any ne'er-do-well husbands, got divorced, was unemployed, went to rehab, got arrested, had a fatherless child or dated (in view of the family) any persons of color, all things sure to set him off. It also helped that I vote Democrat. In a family full of Republicans, Grandpa and I manned the last outpost of democracy, although his brand of Southern Democrat was a far cry from the lefty liberal leanings of mine.

A couple years ago, Grandpa and I talked about living alone. After Grandma died, he was pretty much alone except for the housekeeper most of the time. It broke my heart when we both said how hard it was to cook for just one person. There I was, single in the big city in all my fabulousness, and the one person who understood how hard it is to be on my own was my 90-year-old grandfather. It still gets me to this day. That's why I asked, "Did Carrie Bradshaw have a grandpa?"

He told me I could come live with him anytime. It was a big compliment. Not everybody was invited to stay, and he kicked my thieving cousin out a few months ago.

Grandpa named every dog he ever had either Bitsy or Sam. Little dogs were Bitsy; big dogs were Sam. There must have been 15 Bitsy's and Sam's. The current Bitsy is going with my mom. I wish I could take her, but I'm never home. Bitsy is better off with company.

Grandpa Tex's idea of sex education was to nudge me with his elbow and ask, "You know what causes that, don't you?" whenever there was news of a new baby coming. He always asked if I had a boyfriend and I always said no. Then he'd tell me I better hurry up and get married since I'm getting on. Then he'd want me to remind him how old I was before he'd change his mind and tell me since I had a good job and my car was running good, I didn't need to worry about getting married.

Grandpa's criteria for success was a steady job and a good engine. Much like his own self. He was predictable in that you never knew if you were going to be on his good side or not, and his heart was the engine that kept him with us for nearly 97 years, through all manner of Texas cooking, hard drinking and fighting.

He was the last of a people that lived as simply as they could, when any day without rain was a good one, unless they needed it. He was bigger than life and love him as I do or hate him as I'm sure others did, you simply couldn't ignore Tex. He has been the center of five generations of my family. I wonder now what will keep us connected.

Louis Quaid Martin, or Grandpa Tex to me, I'm sure you're happy to be gone from here at last. You never were one for big productions, so I'll use the words you used to say goodbye whenever we talked:

Well, I'll see ya.