My Grandfather, George Madison Maverick, was born in 1893. That’s him on the bottom right, with the big ears. This picture was taken at Sunshine Ranch in San Antonio. No shirt, no shoes, no problem. Grandpa was one of 13. That’s his dad, seated on the left. He was the son of the more famous Samuel Augustus Maverick, who was an accomplished surveyor and attorney. Sam played a leading role in gaining Texas independence from Mexico and was a signer of the Texas Declaration of Independence.His grandson, my Grandfather, outgrew his humble beginnings on the ranch, earning a doctorate in chemistry from MIT and becoming a VP in the Standard Oil company. By the time I knew him, Grandpa had retired from Standard Oil and was a professor in the school of business at the University of Virginia, living just outside Charlottesville on 325 acres of land that traced back to our family roots there, more than 150 years.

To me, Grandpa was funny and loving, often acting gruff to hide the strong emotion he felt for his family or for any underdog who needed a helping hand, including dogs themselves. His word was his bond and much like another George, that guy who became our first president, I don’t believe Grandpa George ever told a lie. A smart, balanced, accomplished, man, Grandpa, like Grandma, knew he wasn’t better than anyone else in this world, but he damn sure was just as good.

Growing up, I spent a lot of time at their place, “Shepherds Hill Farm”, in Charlottesville, Va. If Grandpa wasn’t in his den reading the Wall Street Journal, he was probably in his shop, working on one of the many chests, tables, and benches he produced toward the end of his life.

I own the large chest he carved for Grandma Ruth, to celebrate their Golden wedding anniversary. He was so happy when a delivery truck lumbered up the driveway with that huge mahogany board he had shipped up from South America, working on that chest incessantly one Summer while I was staying there. The high whine of his router ebbed and flowed in tandem with a million cicadas as he carved patterns into the wood. Dust Devils of smoke and sawdust swirled in spurts from his open shop doors. Stopping by several times a day, I prodded him: “What’s that going to be, Grandpa? What are you making?” With false intolerance for the familiar question, he would say: “You don’t ask Picasso what he’s painting, do you?” Finally, one afternoon when Grandma had taken the yellow Nash Rambler wagon into town to do some grocery shopping at the Safeway Store, Grandpa changed his answer to: “It’s my casket, dammit! I’ll be buried in it!” Apparently, he had been telling Grandma the same thing. She always shut such talk down with: “Oh George, stop!” But now, with her taillights just a red speck down the long driveway, Grandpa saw a photo opportunity. He had me help carry that big mahogany chest out into the sunlight and promptly stepped inside and sat down. Adjusting his straw Fedora, Grandpa instructed: “OK, take a picture. We’ll call it OLD MAN IN HIS BOX. But we have to hurry up before Grandma comes back.”

Now, more than fifty years later, that picture I took stares out at me from the open lid of Grandma’s box. It was her anniversary present after all, not his coffin.

The day before he died, the EMT guys wheeled him out to a waiting ambulance. Grandpa was wearing his straw Fedora and holding a neatly folded Wall Street Journal to his chest. The next day, I was alone with him in the mortuary, saying my last goodbyes. I wished him well on his journey, assured him that we would take good care of Grandma, and slipped a copy of the Wall Street Journal under his folded hands. I should have asked where the hell his Fedora was, but I didn’t. I guess it doesn’t matter. If Grandpa had been able to, he would have joked that the straw hat would burn up right away where he was going.

Although I don't believe in such things, if there is a place where the good guys go when they die, Grandpa will be front and center...shoe-less perhaps but definitely holding the Wall Street Journal and sporting a worn straw Fedora.