Entry # 26: January 25, 2006

Ali Al Salem, Kuwait

I’m headed home. Unfortunately, it is not exactly a planned trip. My grandfather passed away. His once strong and sturdy frame was wrecked by cancer. However, I take solace in the fact that he maintained his wits. He went the way I want to go. Peaceful and with grace, sharp as a buck knife, and with a droll sense of humor.

The original Preston Long was born and raised in Sparta, Georgia, a small, dirt poor farm town at the threshold of the Piedmont region. An NCO in World War II, and a great family man, Papa (as I refer to him) was a man who loved his family and raised his boys right (as I can attest since my Dad has relayed the stories and instituted some of Papa’s old disciplines. In other words, he blistered my butt when I misbehaved). And if you thought your teenage years were tough, try experiencing them in the Great Depression and then in the most massive conflict to ever befall mankind. That era makes the ‘90s seem like a Sunday afternoon nap.

Papa will be missed here, I can guarantee that. But he’ll get to see Mama again, after an almost 20 year absence. And I’m sure they’ll stop by, bring a cake, and say hello to my mom’s parents, Granddaddy and Grandma O’Quinn—who will be breading chicken to be fried—and say to themselves, “You know, we did alright.”

But Papa has gone to tell jokes and bar-b-que with the Lord. I’ll bet a crisp Abe Lincoln that Papa would be the first one to say, “Mr. O’Quinn, I think someone needs to stoke the fire. We need more coals.” I just hope Papa has a blue robe on. It’s the only thing that will keep the rain away. And so the Soldier’s life continues…