Sonny

About two months have passed since the death of my grandfather, and I think I can finally say that I have realized it. Sonny, the notorious man that he was, lives on in every story or mention of his life. He was a strange, harsh, maybe even sadistic man, but only to those that he loved. When he was alive, I dreaded the sight of him. Family functions often ended in tears, and he always caused them. He insulted without hesitation and had no boundaries whatsoever. Still, I miss him. I did everything I could to avoid seeing him while he was alive, and now that he’s gone, I miss my time with him.

My family has a strong reputation in the area I grew up in. In fact, I recently read that a local town was named after one of my ancestors. For as far back as I am aware, the men in my family have been the doctors of the town. The local Cajun residents had stories about my great grandfather revolving around his lacking French skills and the hilarious misunderstandings that came from them. He rode on horseback anywhere he was needed, and his son, appropriately dubbed Sonny, followed in his footsteps.

Sonny served as a doctor and captain in World War II, and after the war, went on to become one of the first doctors in town (not that many were around) to specialize. I remember the strange medical advice he would give, how we always doubted him, and how he was always right. “Do you have a turkey baster?” was one of the phrases I remember from him when my parents called for advice about my ear. Sure enough, that turkey baster fixed my ear and continued to for years.

Stories about my grandfather have always been common. Being one of the only doctors in town for so many years meant that he was a major part of many people’s lives, but ahead of that, he was and continues to be unforgettable. He lived life by his own rules, if there were rules at all. At his funeral reception, I saw two photos of him in a slideshow that I am currently trying to locate copies of. They embodied Sonny like nothing else. In the first photo, he is standing shirtless on the deck of a boat with a cigar in his mouth, an American flag in one hand, and a pistol mid-fire in the other. In the second photo, he stands in the waters on the coast of the Gulf holding a Marlin up by its mouth and punching it in the face. I’m sure that second photo was just a posed shot, but the fact that I have actually had to stop and wonder if he was really wrestling a live marlin speaks about the man that he was. It seems that everywhere I go, people hear my last name and ask if I’m related to the infamous Dr. Sonny. Even after I moved, people here have asked about him. It seems that every time somebody brings him up, I hear another story about him that both makes me smile and wish I could have known him better. He once drove backwards across the town bridge on a drunken dare. When my grandmother was playing cards with friends, he asked the church attendants at mass to offer up a prayer for his wife, because she was out “drinking and gambling” while he was at church. Even as he slowly died, he was making demands of the local priest about how to run his funeral. The stories go on endlessly. I will never be able to hear them all, but I’d love to try.

Sonny was a military man, a doctor, a surgeon, an aviator, a boatsman, a farmer, a father, a hunter, a fisherman, a thrill seeker, and the ultimate lover of life. He lived his life on the edge every day. The family always knew that he would go out in an instant, that his heart would stop or he’d die in an accident, but we were wrong. We watched him die slowly for years until the strong, bold man was reduced to an able minded cripple who could not walk, speak, eat, or even go to the bathroom. But at the end, he made the choice to stop eating, and in taking control, kept the spirit of Sonny alive. He may not be here to see it, but he is alive and well in the hearts of the town, and all the other towns that knew him. Thousands of people showed up to his funeral. People came from all over to say their goodbyes. I have never seen so many people in the massive town cathedral, even on Christmas day. Though I may not have known him in the way that all of those people did, and though I may not have been touched by his spirit when he was still here, that's okay. He’s my grandpa, and I’m proud to have him to live up to.

Unfortunately, we walked out of his funeral service to On Eagles Wings, the funeral song of so many others. If things were different and he’d have had the perfect goodbye, there is only one song that could have fit the bill.