On April 29th my family lost our patriarch – my Grandad. He was 90 years old and a month before he died he got to attend my little brother’s wedding. He was still mowing his own grass and driving himself pretty much anywhere he wanted to go and maintaining his independence like he was 60, but as I watched him get out of his van and walk across the field to the chapel a voice in my head said, “oh wow, he finally looks old.” I knew then it wouldn’t be long until he left us.

Sherrod Scott was, for me, a lighthouse. A dependable and steady waypoint I always knew I could return to whenever I needed some quiet or a reprieve from rough seas. He provided guidance when it was requested, always compassionately and calmly, and always matter of factly. Often our visits consisted of sparse but efficient chatting for a few minutes, then long stretches of sitting in comfortable silence. When Grandmom died and our world got flipped on its head, Grandad (though surely struggling on his own) remained for us a calm constant in the tempest. I will always be thankful that he got to leave us as he lived – mentally sound, occasionally stubborn, quietly funny, and above all else, kind.

For most of my adult life, he’s been researching where our family came from and how we got here and what happened to us in between. During those years of research, he loved to regale anyone who would listen with the ins and outs of what he had learned, even if they weren’t family, and especially if he’d already told them that particular fact several times before. After the wedding, I compiled a list of genealogy questions I’d been wondering about for a while. I printed out relevant maps and articles I’d found in my own amateur research efforts. Then a couple of days before my flight, I went over to Grandad’s house and told him I had a list of genealogy questions for him. His whole face lit up as soon as I said ‘genealogy,’ and before I could finish my sentence he jumped up to go grab his Scott Family Binder from his office upstairs.

We spent the next hour or so talking about what I’d learned in my own research vs what he’d found in his. I told him about my plans to keep studying it and hopefully fill in the gaps in what he compiled over the years He offered advice and a few pro-tips. It’s the most we’d talked to each other in a long time, not just because I’ve lived so far away but also because he never was a particularly verbose man, especially on the phone. I deeply appreciated that about him; I still do. As I’ve grown older I’ve learned about the wisdom that comes with that kind of quietness. A wisdom Grandad embodied for me every day he was in my life. 

Grandad was a metaphorical lighthouse for me but he also brought lighthouses into my life in a more literal way. When my Mom was growing up, Grandmom and Grandad rented out the lighthouse on NAS Pensacola every summer for a couple of weeks to see friends they’d met when he was stationed here and have a vacation at the beach. By the time I came along, Pensacola was a second home for our family and the frequent visits had moved across the street from the lighthouse to the Cabins. For many years we spent every spare holiday and off day in Pensacola soaking up the sun and the sand and making memories in our favorite place, always returning to the foot of the lighthouse at the end of the day. Four Christmases ago, we bought a commemorative brick in the front sidewalk of that same lighthouse that is now a museum. It reads “For memories made by the Scott Family and Friends. 1969-1989.” We’ve lost a lot of the Scott Family and the friends referenced now, but those memories we all made around the lighthouse will last generations.

Lighthouses exist primarily to keep ships safe, but in that purpose they also have the power to affect lives in ways they cannot predict. The same can be said for Grandad and the affect his life has had on my own. Had he not joined the Navy, he would’ve never been stationed in Pensacola. I wouldn’t have been able to choose Pensacola as my home after college, which resulted in me meeting Kevin and seeing more of the world than I ever could have hoped to see. I am realizing life long dreams in large part because an 18 year old kid from Scott Holler, Mississippi chose to leave home and see the world some time in the 1950s. I’ll never be able to express how thankful I am for that.

I was blessed with five incredible grandparents, and have now said goodbye to all of them. Losing grandparents in any capacity is hard, but losing your last one is a new brand of loneliness nobody warns you about. How weird it is to talk about Grandad in the past tense when we tell his stories now instead of listening to him tell them. Thirty three years is arguably a very long time to get to keep a grandparent for, but it also feels unfairly short for someone who held so much space in our lives. I am unspeakably thankful for every day and every memory I have with Grandad, and amidst this new brand of sadness I am deeply comforted knowing that he’ll always be with me, quietly lighting the way.