Eighty years ago today, Roy Everett Trussell breathed his first breath, nine months or so after his life began.
Many of my earliest memories are of being with him. He taught me that the best way to make a kid stop crying is to pretend to cry more loudly than the kid. (The kid - one of my sisters or I - is so confused that she just stops and stares.) On one of our many three-wheeler rides to feed the cows, he taught me to spit. (I am not sure he meant to teach that lesson, but I learned by modeling his tobacco-spitting.) He taught me to call the cows for feeding time: "Hey, cows, c'mon." (You can't really spell it like we said it... For a demo, call me or ask me to do it in person sometime.) He let me experience the tugging of a calf on the other end of a bottle I held. (He had to hold onto my hands to keep the calf from stealing the bottle.) He taught me that a ride in a pickup truck is not complete without some good, toe-tappin' southern gospel, and the rides were always better with a little dog named Tina. (After I demonstrate calling the cows, I can teach you how we asked Tina if she wanted to ride.) By his quiet example, he taught me that worship is appreciating the small stuff.
Thank You, God, for the life and legacy of Granddaddy.
-mo
Moville
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