White shores... and beyond. The far green country under a swift sunrise.
My grandfather died yesterday.
It's funny, through the years we've come up with other ways to say that statement. "He's passed away", "He's sleeping", "He's gone", "He's pushing up daisies"…or the various other ways that people have made up to avoid saying that dreaded "d" word. Is it because we want to try to ignore it, to try to make it go away? Maybe if we don't think about it or talk about it, maybe he'll be fine. Maybe this was all a big mistake. Maybe he'll walk into the room and announce in a loud booming voice that he was just kidding, that he was just fine, that things were peachy.
Once you mention that "d" word there's no going back. It's final. It's done. There's nothing left, no changing your mind, no taking it back. Maybe it's because we know, deep down inside, that death is just wrong, unnatural. We crave life and living and fight tooth and nail to keep living and breathing and experiencing life.
But that still doesn't change the facts: my grandfather died yesterday. He went to bed Monday night, fully expecting to get up the next morning. What was on his agenda? Maybe a trip to the senior home to play some cards. Maybe he was going to sit and talk to my cousins, or my aunt and uncle, relating some story that he thought of, some piece of family history. Or maybe he was just going to relax, take a walk to the edge of the property or down the street to talk with the neighbors. Maybe he was just going to watch the birds fly around and the cars pass by.
Instead, he never woke Tuesday morning.
Was he some kind of great man? No, I can't say that he was, but to me he was special—especially now. He was my last living grandparent, the last of a great era of the older ones in the family that I knew well and I loved. He wasn't a great talker, but he had a wicked sense of humor when he decided to use it. He was a carpenter by trade and a farmer by necessity. He would plant every spring and every summer when I visited we used to go to the garden and stand in the sweet pea patch, pulling pods from the vines. After popping them open, we'd stand side-by-side eating fresh peas until we couldn't eat any more. And then with a gleam of humor in her eyes, grandma would yell at us when we couldn't eat our dinner.
Some days I would hear the sounds of the saws coming from the top floor of the barn and I'd sneak up the stairs, the smell of fresh saw dust in my nose and I'd sit and watch him work, making tables and chairs and anything that he fancied. He'd look over every now and then and smile, continuing to work as I watched from my perch in the corner. I still remember the day when I was young and into dolls and the like that he gave me a special present. He'd make me a swinging bassinet for my dolls that I could play with and he made it just for me. It was perfect. It's something I plan on giving to my children (if I have any). You could tell that it was something he made with love and affection for one of his first grandchildren.
Every summer he'd make me a tree swing that I'd spend hours playing on, flying high into the great tree in the back yard, just outside the back porch window. I was young and free and happy because I was at my grandparents house. I hated the ride there, but once we arrived I hated to leave. And that feeling stayed with me every time I visited, even when I was grown. It's hard when your grandparents live in another country a long-ways away from where you grow up. And every time I left I always worried that this time might be the last time I'd ever see them again, that I wouldn't get there in time to say goodbye one last time.
Unfortunately, that's exactly what happened for both my grandmother and now my grandfather. I never got to say goodbye one last time. I just hope that in this instance that his one last hug and kiss can last until I see him again.
He lived a full life, the start of his 91st year only a month and a half away. He died as he lived—quietly and in peace. I should be grateful for that, but it doesn't make it easier.
I miss you grandpa and I love you more than you can ever know.
It's funny, through the years we've come up with other ways to say that statement. "He's passed away", "He's sleeping", "He's gone", "He's pushing up daisies"…or the various other ways that people have made up to avoid saying that dreaded "d" word. Is it because we want to try to ignore it, to try to make it go away? Maybe if we don't think about it or talk about it, maybe he'll be fine. Maybe this was all a big mistake. Maybe he'll walk into the room and announce in a loud booming voice that he was just kidding, that he was just fine, that things were peachy.
Once you mention that "d" word there's no going back. It's final. It's done. There's nothing left, no changing your mind, no taking it back. Maybe it's because we know, deep down inside, that death is just wrong, unnatural. We crave life and living and fight tooth and nail to keep living and breathing and experiencing life.
But that still doesn't change the facts: my grandfather died yesterday. He went to bed Monday night, fully expecting to get up the next morning. What was on his agenda? Maybe a trip to the senior home to play some cards. Maybe he was going to sit and talk to my cousins, or my aunt and uncle, relating some story that he thought of, some piece of family history. Or maybe he was just going to relax, take a walk to the edge of the property or down the street to talk with the neighbors. Maybe he was just going to watch the birds fly around and the cars pass by.
Instead, he never woke Tuesday morning.
Was he some kind of great man? No, I can't say that he was, but to me he was special—especially now. He was my last living grandparent, the last of a great era of the older ones in the family that I knew well and I loved. He wasn't a great talker, but he had a wicked sense of humor when he decided to use it. He was a carpenter by trade and a farmer by necessity. He would plant every spring and every summer when I visited we used to go to the garden and stand in the sweet pea patch, pulling pods from the vines. After popping them open, we'd stand side-by-side eating fresh peas until we couldn't eat any more. And then with a gleam of humor in her eyes, grandma would yell at us when we couldn't eat our dinner.
Some days I would hear the sounds of the saws coming from the top floor of the barn and I'd sneak up the stairs, the smell of fresh saw dust in my nose and I'd sit and watch him work, making tables and chairs and anything that he fancied. He'd look over every now and then and smile, continuing to work as I watched from my perch in the corner. I still remember the day when I was young and into dolls and the like that he gave me a special present. He'd make me a swinging bassinet for my dolls that I could play with and he made it just for me. It was perfect. It's something I plan on giving to my children (if I have any). You could tell that it was something he made with love and affection for one of his first grandchildren.
Every summer he'd make me a tree swing that I'd spend hours playing on, flying high into the great tree in the back yard, just outside the back porch window. I was young and free and happy because I was at my grandparents house. I hated the ride there, but once we arrived I hated to leave. And that feeling stayed with me every time I visited, even when I was grown. It's hard when your grandparents live in another country a long-ways away from where you grow up. And every time I left I always worried that this time might be the last time I'd ever see them again, that I wouldn't get there in time to say goodbye one last time.
Unfortunately, that's exactly what happened for both my grandmother and now my grandfather. I never got to say goodbye one last time. I just hope that in this instance that his one last hug and kiss can last until I see him again.
He lived a full life, the start of his 91st year only a month and a half away. He died as he lived—quietly and in peace. I should be grateful for that, but it doesn't make it easier.
I miss you grandpa and I love you more than you can ever know.