What an honor, an honor indeed: to be able to come and talk about my cousin, Henry. To my family, he was known as Grady. And it is somewhat ironic, I suppose, that about forty years ago I stood to give the eulogy for Grady’s son, young Steve, who lost his life in that tragic Vietnam war.

“Eulogy” comes from two Greek words, “eu” and “logia,” meaning literally, “good words” or “good statements.” And I am so proud to be able to say “good words” about Grady. Grady Stroud was a good man. And I guess that’s what most of us would like to have said about us in the end, that we lived a good life. And I can say that with all sincerity about Grady. He was a good man.

You, his family, had more occasions to be with Grady than I did. I’m sure that there are thousands of events along a time line that you can recall: good times, humorous times and probably some tragedies--memories of being with Grady. I have to look back not on such numerous events along a time line; I must look back through an historical depth, an overlay of singular memories of my limited time with Grady. It is through such an overlay of singular memories that one comes to form a configuration of someone’s character.

Any time we try to characterize another human being by recounting his history, we should be reminded of the French intellectual, Voltaire, who said that history is the bag of tricks we play on the dead. But I want to tell you about my perspective on some of the experiences I had with my cousin, Grady. My perspective is radically different from that which Shakespeare had Mark Anthony say at his eulogy for Caesar. Mark Anthony said to the crowd: “I come not to praise Caesar but to bury him.” Today I have come to Shreveport, not to bury Grady, but to praise him.”

One of the earliest memories I have that characterizes my view of Grady was not with Grady, but with his brother Robert. I was only six or seven years old when Robert visited my family at that old unpainted house on a dirt road near Lake, Mississippi. It had a dug well out back, a sawdust pile in which my father would bury a ten-cent block of ice to keep it from melting so fast, (We did not even have an ice box to put it in.) and a “two-holer” out back with the proverbial handy Sear Roebuck catalogue at hand. Robert, as I recall, was in uniform, being on leave from the military. He, my father, and I were in the living room, sitting by the fireplace that had logs glowing bright red over hot coals. I’ll never forget Robert getting up and reaching for the fire poker and beginning to stir the fire and adjust the logs. As he did so, he said, “Now Uncle Lonnie, there’s nothing wrong with your fire. I just like to stir a fire a little bit.”

Many years later, when I was merely a teenager, Grady had come to visit us in our new home in Forest, Mississippi. He and my father were standing out in the front yard. And once again I heard that same politeness and expression of kindness as Grady would say those same words: “Uncle Lonnie . . .” and then start to tell about some event. I suppose I’ve never known a kinder man than Grady Stroud..

Now anyone who knew Grady knows that he was a talker. As we used to say in Mississippi: “Grady could talk the horns off a billy goat. Grady telling a story was like an elite Frenchman enjoying a gourmet dinner, slowly tasting every morsel, squeezing out the flavor of each bite. And that’s how Grady was with words. He could squeeze the juice out of every word. Every vowel that came out of his mouth came out pregnant as he would slowly narrate some tale about his life. And his narration was like watching someone blow up a balloon. You’d begin to wonder just how much more hot air the story could stand. I suppose there is only one other person who could match the extended nature of his narrations: his sister Lillian. These two would be a real Super Bowl of articulation.

Another memory I have is that occasion when Shirley and I visited him in Natchez, Mississippi. Grady took Shirley and me fishing. Now that’s something you should know about the Strouds: they love to fish. This is such a truism that I have I refer to it as a Stroudism: in summary it proclaims: “in heaven, if there’s no fishing—or women!—we ain’t goin’.”

Grady had two four-wheelers. Grady was on one and Shirley and I were on the other one. He led us back into some woods were there was backwater from the river. We got into a boat and fished for bluegill bream for a while, listening to some of Grady’s tales as we fished. On the way back, Grady led the way and Shirley and I followed. As he went over a hill, he took a right turn, but we couldn’t see him make the turn. Shirley and I went straight. After several hundred yards of driving straight, we realized that something was wrong and we turned around. As we did so, we saw Grady coming to meet us. When he saw that we had him in sight again, he smiled, making that little squint with his eyes, and with one hand beckoned us to follow again. I can imagine how many times you kids have experienced your father, this good man, kindly beckoning you toward the right path after you had gone astray in some situation.

Some of you know how I love the Hebrew language, which I studied for many years. Hebrew like all Semitic languages is highly metaphorical. It describes by painting pictures. It has few words that we would call abstractions. To describe a fertile hill, a poet would speak of it as a “hill son of oil.” “Son of” to the Hebrew mind functioned to express “having the characteristics of.” This picture of a hill as “son of oil” simply meant that there were lots of olive trees that grew there, hence fertile ground. So long a Jewish father is alive, the son does not get direct credit for anything he does; the deed is reflected back to the father; it was “Reubin, son of Joseph,” or as today it would be express, not Bob or Vince, but Bob, son of Grady or Vince, son of Grady. who did the deed. It’s been a privilege for me to lately get to know and visit with Grady’s children in my old age. They are indeed a reflection of Grady and Rachel.

This poetic language was seen quite recently when the despot Saddam Hussein described the anticipated war with the US by predicting, not that the US could expect a great war; Saddam said it would be “the mother of all wars.” Arabic, like Hebrew is picturesque.

Psalm 127 reminds me of Grady and his children. The Psalmist’s states in one verse: hina nahalath YHWH banim: “Sons are a heritage of the Lord.” Then he continues to express this with a graphic metaphor: “Like arrows are to a mighty warrior, so are young children. Fortunate is the man who has his quiver full of them.”

Not too long ago Shirley and I had an opportunity to visit with Grady, Rachel and the children at Bob’s home. We were sitting out on the patio near the pool. Grady was sitting across from me and we started talking about fishing. Grady said, “You know, I used to love to go fishing, but my neighbors don’t ask me to go with them any more.” I almost had to leave the table as I felt tears welling up in my eyes. Later that day I told Bob that I didn’t care what it would take, but that this coming Summer we were going to go to Shreveport and take Grady fishing. And after hearing of Grady’s demise, I thought to myself some of the same thoughts I had when my own father died: Why didn’t I do such things the Summer before. Such thoughts as this I call the “Whatifers.” What if I had done this or that.

But in our memories, we must not let the mind do this to us. We are only human. And we will never become more godly by being less human. So don’t do that to yourselves. Such thoughts are primarily an illusion. When you get Grady’s—and my—age, you really don’t need to have the kids around all the time. You get in the way. We like our naps. Have your good memories. Let them pile up. Look through them and remember the character of this good man, Grady Stroud.

It is from such memories that we can get comfort. I suppose everyone here probably knows from memory the old hymn that has been sung for decades at funerals in the South: It’s words express the source of much comfort:

Bill Stroud, of Richwood, Texas, has an extensive background in three areas: theology, philosophy and psychology (B.D, Th.D., Ph.D). Although semi-retired, he is active as a speaker, free-lance writer and a workshop presenter for educational and service agencies. Address comments to drstroud@comcast.net