My granddad, Horace Adams, turns 89 today.  I called this morning to wish him a Happy Birthday, and when he answered, he told me he was reading.

That he was reading was good news.  Last summer, he had cataract surgery on his good eye.  A scratched cornea during his recovery caused concern that he wouldn’t regain his vision.

I went to spend a few days with him, mostly so that I could drive him around and be his eyes until his vision was completely restored.  The first morning, I woke to find him in the kitchen cooking me breakfast.  And then I saw that the dryer was pulled away from the laundry room wall.  “What are you doing with the dryer, Grandad?”

“Awww, the cotton-pickin’ thing ain’t workin’ this morning.  I pulled it out to see if I can fix it.”

I didn’t dare mention calling a repairman.  Because even with compromised vision, he’s still the best appliance repairman I’ve ever known.  If he can’t fix it, no one can.

For as long as I can remember, at any given time, he’d have a broken dishwasher or clothes dryer, probably one he’d found abandoned on the side of the road, that just needed a few minor adjustments to make it as good as new.  His grandchildren have never wanted for a major household appliance; we just had to ask Grandad if he had an old one lying around that he could fix.  He mows his lawn with a Snapper he’s had since the 1960s.   It’s older than I am.

My uncle says Grandad is hard-headed.  And he’s probably right.  Last December, I watched the two of them argue over whether or not Grandad should climb up on his own roof to install a satellite dish.  The argument was getting a little heated, and I tried to diffuse it by saying, “Grandad, if you do, someone might think you’re Santa Claus.”  He chuckled, but stubbornly refused to promise us that he wouldn’t climb up on his roof.

But stubbornness is his biggest fault.  If you can even call it a fault.

Thankfully, on this chilly January morning in Atlanta, Georgia, his satellite and dryer were working, the grass didn’t need cutting, and he could see to read.  After we chatted about his birthday party, our conversation turned to a man he knows who has been cheating on his wife and is now dragging out an acrimonious divorce by haggling over child support.

“He’s just sorry,” was Grandad’s take on the whole situation.

I got to thinking about it after we hung up, about how there are many things one could call a man who shirks his duty to a wife and children.  The words I would use are a little saltier.  But Grandad doesn’t cuss.  “Sorry” is the harshest term he can conjure up.  And to his way of thinking, “sorry” is also as low as you can get.

It reminds me of the conversation we had a lunch several months ago.  My uncle brought up the Republican primaries, and he asked who I thought would win.

I hemmed and hawed and basically admitted I had no idea.

“I tell you what, though, Newt Gingrich is the smartest of the whole bunch,” my uncle finally said.

Grandad hadn’t said a word, but at that moment, he piped up and said, “Well, he ain’t smart enough to keep a wife!”

Ten years ago, he watched helplessly as my grandmother died of pancreatic cancer. He still wears his wedding band, and to this day, his eyes fill with tears at the mention of her name.

I’d rather die than every have him call me “sorry.”  And I won’t remarry until I find one like him.  Happy Birthday to one of the best men who will ever live.