Eulogy

I was about eight and it was the first warm day. Spring came late at the lake. My grandfather excitedly pulled a new bike out of the garage. By new, I mean something he had found at a Saturday morning yard sale and purchased alongside a pile of old board games, a broken radio, a few rusty old tools and the remains of someone else’s tackle box. And bargained the poor unsuspecting owner down to five dollars with his unrelenting gift of gab. The bike was too big for me and not at all stylish with its cushy seat and front basket. But that was the charm of the lake. The ground was soggy with late April snow and wet fallen leaves. I had eked an unusual permission to ride around the circular drive, out into the road and back into the yard, but no further, The path was well worn and too short and within a matter of minutes, I veered off course and onto the front lawn. The wheel caught the edge of a tiny tree stump, skidding the tire, sending me off the bike and the plummeting the handle bar straight into my chest. There was an intense pain as the wind was knocked out of me and a guttural moan escaped my lips. Within in instant my grandfather was at my side.

“Darn old stump,” he said. “Grampie never should have left that there.” I looked up and saw tears in his own eyes.

That scene was my grandfather. A passionate, sensitive man. He loved the outdoors. He loved a good bargain. He loved his life and he loved his family, feeling the joys and pains of each member as if they were his own.

Smell is said to be the sense most closely linked to memory. I find it to be true. My grandfather smelled of the outdoors. Wet wool socks and fresh cut wood. Gasoline and cold air. I still smell the damp dirt road and decomposing leaves of our long walks to the clearing by the lake. That certain densely organic, dankness along the planks to the dock. The scent of sun on water on a summer’s day and worms in a styrofoam container. The crispness of wood smoke on a cold winter’s night. These are the smells of my grandfather.

I see flannel shirts and suspenders. Off white socks. Work boots. A hat. A grey lunch pail. A nice warm coat. Heavy leather gloves. A toothpick in his mouth. A cup of coffee in his hand. Fishing poles and tackle boxes. Reclaimed piles of who-knows-what rescued from the dump.

I hear Box Car Willy on an eight track. Mr. Lincoln on the CB. And talk of a new car. A new tractor. A new four wheeler. Something new with wheels. The Channel 6 news, Lawrence Welk and Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. That certain sound from his mouth that only he could make. The peepers and the deafening snore at night. This, the sound track of my memories.

And what I feel is loved. What we all felt was loved. My grandfather loved his family, and whether we lived across the country or across the yard, we lived too far away from him. Whether it had been a year since our last visit or only a day, it had been too long, His beliefs were simple and straightforward. Love your family. Love the Lord. The rest would take care of itself.

He and my grandmother shared 70 years together facing the joys and challenges of life. She was the love of his life. Together they gave their four children magical childhoods on the farm. I am sure the work was hard, but the rewards were greater. The shared memories of these days has been the background music of my life – of slides down the grain elevator, of giggling at the dinner table, of bikes ridden down hallways, of afternoon naps, of old dogs and milking time and home cooked meals and snowfalls so grand they buried cars. The tellers of these tales always look content – the nostalgia bringing them back to a happy place in their minds – that space that they shared with my grandfather.

The evidence of happy times surrounded me as I grew up. My grandparents had so many good friends. Good friends they camped with and fished with and played laughter-filled games of cards with until late at night. I grew up with more “aunts” and “uncles” than I could count – their friends were our family too and a testament to their overwhelming love and generosity.

Grampie loved to talk and visit. A quick trip anywhere with him could last for hours and try the patience of any impatient child. I can remember standing by his side at yard sales or coffee shops, silently willing him forward as he talked, and chatted and reminisced and gossiped and gabbed and chatted some more with anyone who would stop long enough to listen. He loved people and people loved him right back.

He had a special place in his heart for his grandchildren. His boat, christened the Becky Lynn, sat in the yard. The grandkids would pile into the wagon of his tiny tractor for rides. He took us on his snow mobile, his four wheeler, for walks in the woods. We sat on his lap and punched at his newspaper, tickled him knowing we were in for an easy laugh, tried to catch the toothpick in his mouth before he sucked it back in, waited anxiously for him to come home from work so we could see what treat he had left in his lunchbox. He taught us how to fish and how to row a boat and how to catch a frog. With the patience of Job, he even taught me how to drive. Around and around the country roads we would travel, stories of fish caught with balls of bread and toys made from strings and life as he remembered it from when he was a boy.

I interviewed a spiritual advisor from Hospice once when I was writing a news story. He told me that at the end of life, all humans, no matter how they have lived, no matter what they believe, come to the same point as they face their own mortality. They want to know what their life has meant, that their life has mattered. I am sure Grampie struggled with this as he wrestled old age. We will never know what conclusions he came to, what peace and value he discovered in the examination of his own life. But I do know what his life has shown to me. Love your family. Have faith. Talk to people. Be loyal. Work hard. Make plenty of time for fun. Wear your heart on your sleeve.

Alex got a new fishing pole for his birthday this year. We set out for the lake with a Styrofoam container of worms. And the scene was the same. The peatiness of the soil. The scent of warm sun on the water. The catch of the breeze. I put my arm around Alex’s shoulders, took his hand in mine and taught him how to cast, and while I was now the teacher, I felt Grampie’s arm around me. It took only seconds for the first sunfish to bite, only seconds for the fantastic joy of a first catch to spread across Alex’s face. Only seconds for me to realize I had to get it off the hook and only seconds to wish more than anything Grampie were actually right beside me. And, somehow, he was. I took a breath. Held the fish in my hand, and set it free. I saw Alex’s relief as it swam away. The same relief I had as a child. So thrilled to catch something. So happy it could still swim home.

“Wow. That fish must be happy to be going back to his family,” he said. “Do you think he was scared?”

Of course, I cannot say. Life is a series of catching and releasing. Of holding something in our hand and of letting it go. I think this past week, Grampie taught us all how to do that with grace.

What he has left behind is like a tackle box of memories. Different layers that can be pulled out or folded back up. Tiny compartments filled with surprises. A few old, worn favorites that always work. Some so tucked away and forgotten that to discover them to find something new.

So it is with someone who loved so much, with someone we loved so much. Grampie has found his way back home, but so powerful a force was he in our lives that our time with him will go on. We will sense him in the wood smoke. Feel his hand in the warmth of a coffee cup. Hear his advice in a squeaky car belt. See his reflection in the faces of our children. Feel his love in a hug from another.

There is a famous quote that states: “Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.”

I lost my breath falling off that bike thirty years ago, but what I gained was a moment; a moment like so many I shared with my grandfather that simply took my breath away.