Dear Gramps

August 22, 2013

Dear Gramps, 

I remember when I was little and you’d pull candy lipsticks or quarters out of my ears and I am still convinced you are personal friends with God, the Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus.

I remember countless hours spent over the fire pit at Woodhaven, there is still nothing like the smell of wood on fire, food cooked over it, mesquite soaked in water so it smokes and doesn’t burn, and being reverent around the embers at the end of the night singing songs and watching the fire city come to life.  

I remember being curled up with you on your recliner watching TV under your striped blanket. It smelled like you-my original Old Spice man.  I’d wrap up in it and bury my face in it because it felt like a hug from you. It’s my blanket now and it reminds me of you and those days long ago.

I remember when we’d hike—Woodhaven, Owasippee Family Camp, or any of the state parks we’d camp at. I have this litany of memories; you teasing gram with your tall tales, dog tracks became bear tracks, and hawks became domesticated enough to land on your arm and eat from your hand with a piece of bread and a sing-songy, “here hawkie hawkie”. You have always been and will always be the knight in shining armor, the prince who kisses the princess, and the hero that saved us from monsters under the bed, noises that go bump in the night, and what the shadows become.

You can do anything.

I remember the photo spread in Popular Mechanics of your recreation of Lincoln’s bedroom furniture that you recreated from a picture. I was fascinated when you’d work on the lathe. I love your swirlies, your turtles, and the reindeer. If something was broken, bring it to Gramps, he can fix anything.

I love hearing you tell a story. The list of them is endless and of the boyscout stories,  the braces story is one of my favorites.  The Family Camp memories—Snipe hunts, potluck dinners, and skits around the bonfire. The smell of a basement or a cabin that has been closed up always brings them back in technicolor. The stories from Crystal Lake, pumping water out of the pump into a bucket that would be way to heavy for any of us kids to carry alone, the tiny tree frog hunts, the stories around the fire at night, the frozen yogurt still makes me think of that trip to the little shop in the woods.  Woodhaven and all of our family vacations and gatherings together are the foundation of who I am today.

George, living out his earthy rule in Aunt Toot’s dog, Lightning. You had many discussions with George. I think those discussions carved out for me the depth of your acceptance. You have always had the ability to live and let live and no story was too far-fetched for you.  

Remember that time at Crystal Lake when you lost your wallet while fishing with dad? I remember you and dad going out the next morning. You had had a dream about where it was. It was all there. You found every picture, every ID, every card, all your money.  I have NEVER forgotten that and all of your stuff laying out on flat surfaces to dry out. 

I never knew life without your green thumb. Cherry tomatoes in your garden. You grew anise for grandma’s cookies because it was expensive. You grew sunflowers one year because I wanted fresh sunflower seeds. You grew a forest of trees, one at a time, in your backyard and out at Woodhaven. Remember my tiny little baby fir tree? It was barely a foot tall. Today it is over 30 feet tall and about 15 feet across at the base. I will always remember you with dirt on the knees of your jeans and under your nails. (Which you’d later clean out with the pocket knife I never saw you without.) I remember you out in the front yard with a piece of white paper in the grass. You were reseeding the side lawn with grass seed you’d harvested from the front lawn. Green thumb? Who am I kidding, you are probably part forest sprite.  

The endless holidays at your house—Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter…to this day I can’t smell nutmeg without seeing you grating it fresh over our eggnog in your special “holiday” glasses.  

You were always so proud of your Christmas tree. It wouldn’t be a holiday at your house without one of your famous centerpieces—the Easter bunny made from a bleach bottle, the first thanksgiving scene on styrofoam complete with a walnut turned into the turkey feast for the styrofoam cone Pilgrims and Indians. One wouldn’t even think of celebrating Christmas until Santa parachutes in from the light fixture.

The way that you would always give grandma a special Christmas present and she would blush and grin like it was the first one she ever received and each a surprise. The creative ways you would wrap them.

I still have one of your ornate 60’s ornaments, complete with seed beads and sequins, hanging from my Christmas tree every year. They always amazed me that you MADE them. The hours of craftsmanship and imagination never cease to amaze me.

I remember slide show nights in your living room. It was like a narrated family history unfolding before our eyes. Some of the best family stories came from those nights. I was often jealous that I was too young to go on those wilderness treks with all of you, but then I realized that I got to live them through all of you and didn’t have to carry a canoe over my head.

I have always admired how forward thinking and intuitive you are. All the things you have created in your home to solve a problem. The dormer on the upstairs to give Great-Grandma Mom & Great-Grandpa  O’dad a home. The speakers wired through the basement so that the wires didn’t get in the way upstairs. You had a fully wired, surround sound stereo home before that even became a job description. Now it’s standard in new home design. The side cabinets in the dining room, the shelves in the storm shelter, the nooks and crannies in the basement to store and preserve the “stuff” of your lives.

I remember the conversation we had in 1991 when you told me that someday everyone would have their own telephone number and there would be a computer on every desk in schools. I remember thinking of you when I walked into my classroom in 2000 and there was a computer on every desk. And today, Gram has her own phone number.

Remember when you melted our gym shoes in the fire pit trying to dry them out?

The jean jacket with the mother of pearl snaps on the front and the jean patches on the elbows. That jacket would hang in the stairwell to the basement and sometimes I'd wear it so I could be "just like gramps." 

I have the belt that mom made for you, leather punched with your name on the back and a 1976 coin belt buckle.

Endless hours of crushing cans with you, stamp collecting, crossword puzzles, busy work. It didn’t matter what it was, we were “helpers” and with that came stolen cookies from the cookie jar and eskimo kisses.

Remember when we'd go and pick grandma up from work? We'd hide in the backseat of the brown station wagon as if she didn't know we were coming to spend the night and "surprise" her by jumping out.

Remember when you'd cut our bangs? Every kid getting their first haircut from Gramps. It was like a right of passage.

How about the endless games of tetherball, jarts—the kind that are now banned for being “dangerous”, horseshoes, pushing us on the swing, listening to us jabber our stories, our hopes, and our dreams and never being too busy.

There is nothing you don’t already know. I have told you countless times how much you mean to me. I’ve shared with you that you are my hero. I have told you how much I love and adore you.

I hope that George tells you all his secrets and I can’t wait to hear all of your new stories someday.

Love Always,
xoxox

Rumplestillskinny