The Peace of Wild Things
My grandpa died last week.
He was 93 years old and had been ill for a while, but that only makes it slightly less difficult. It's still a loss for all of us, a gaping hole in our family. An empty chair at the table, a pair of shoes by the door that will never be worn again, a pick-up truck sitting under the oak tree that we can't bear to think of selling.
He was a logger, like my great-grandpa, like my great-great-grandpa, like my dad. He logged with horses well into the 1980s, long after everyone else had switched to machines, because he enjoyed working with them and didn't want to give it up. His logging horses were the first I ever rode, and he always used to say I got my love of horses from him. I probably did.
He loved being outside, even when he wasn't working. He hunted, and fished, and went for long walks. My first hikes were with him, traipsing through the woods on our family's land. There were no trails, no signs, no GPS watches--just a walking stick and a couple peanut butter sandwiches in our pockets. I walked a lot of miles looking at his boot heels, stopping to pick flowers, catch a toad, ask him what kind of bird was making that noise.
Like me, he loved to read, and learn things. He never used a computer, but he knew you could find just about anything on the Internet, and every week when I called he'd have something for me to look up. Who made the first potato chip? How long does a grasshopper live? I spent a lot of Sunday nights reading Wikipedia pages into the phone.
He was funny, and kind, and incredibly honest. If you've read my stories, you've met him, in a way. There's a little of him in Ernst from Junk Cheap--Ernst's outrage over opposition to marriage equality came straight from my grandpa, who insisted "it's no one's goddamn business who someone else wants to marry." There's more than a little of him in Steve Rogers, both the Semaphore version and the Rule Number Nine version. I borrowed quite a few things from my grandpa, habits and personality traits, his dislike of the casual use of the f-bomb, his old antique radio that didn't work anymore. It came in handy when I was writing Captain America, knowing a guy who was born in 1920 and fought in World War II and hated bullies.
He always flew an American flag out by the road, even when he disagreed strenuously with the direction the country is going in, and it's at half-staff now, for him. The funeral was standing room only, and afterwards there was a luncheon in the small town he grew up in, bowls and pans and Nesco cookers lined up on the counter in the town hall, full of food cooked and served at no charge by the women of the town. My second grade teacher was there, cousins of cousins were there, sons and daughters and grandchildren of deceased friends were there. My parents have been divorced for thirty years but she was there, and some of her siblings came, and some of her friends. A man who worked for him for years broke down and cried outside the funeral home. There was an honor guard, and each of the grandkids received a spent shell from the volley.
My grandmother gave my brother my grandfather's watch. My cousin Kyle got a coin he carried all through the war. I got his pocketknife. When I was a little girl we would sit on the tailgate of his pickup truck and share an apple, and he would cut it into slices with his knife, and let me fold the blade back in when we were done.
About ten years ago there was a Christmas where money was tight for my grandparents but not for me, and before I left their house on Christmas day I rolled up a twenty dollar bill and stuck it through a wreath-shaped ornament on the tree, for them to find when they took it down. When I saw them a few weeks later, my grandma asked if I had left it there and I said yes. She said, "Grandpa said right away it was you." I laughed and said, "How did you know?" and my Grandpa said, "Because you have a good heart."
I got that from him, too.
Age nine. Look at that face!
When I visited in July he had just been moved to a nursing home, and I spent the day there with him and my grandma, looking at pictures. This is my grandparents sixty-five years ago, and just two months ago.
Count von Count would like you to know that over at Dreamwidth this post has
comments! Ah ha ha ha ha!
He was 93 years old and had been ill for a while, but that only makes it slightly less difficult. It's still a loss for all of us, a gaping hole in our family. An empty chair at the table, a pair of shoes by the door that will never be worn again, a pick-up truck sitting under the oak tree that we can't bear to think of selling.
He was a logger, like my great-grandpa, like my great-great-grandpa, like my dad. He logged with horses well into the 1980s, long after everyone else had switched to machines, because he enjoyed working with them and didn't want to give it up. His logging horses were the first I ever rode, and he always used to say I got my love of horses from him. I probably did.
He loved being outside, even when he wasn't working. He hunted, and fished, and went for long walks. My first hikes were with him, traipsing through the woods on our family's land. There were no trails, no signs, no GPS watches--just a walking stick and a couple peanut butter sandwiches in our pockets. I walked a lot of miles looking at his boot heels, stopping to pick flowers, catch a toad, ask him what kind of bird was making that noise.
Like me, he loved to read, and learn things. He never used a computer, but he knew you could find just about anything on the Internet, and every week when I called he'd have something for me to look up. Who made the first potato chip? How long does a grasshopper live? I spent a lot of Sunday nights reading Wikipedia pages into the phone.
He was funny, and kind, and incredibly honest. If you've read my stories, you've met him, in a way. There's a little of him in Ernst from Junk Cheap--Ernst's outrage over opposition to marriage equality came straight from my grandpa, who insisted "it's no one's goddamn business who someone else wants to marry." There's more than a little of him in Steve Rogers, both the Semaphore version and the Rule Number Nine version. I borrowed quite a few things from my grandpa, habits and personality traits, his dislike of the casual use of the f-bomb, his old antique radio that didn't work anymore. It came in handy when I was writing Captain America, knowing a guy who was born in 1920 and fought in World War II and hated bullies.
He always flew an American flag out by the road, even when he disagreed strenuously with the direction the country is going in, and it's at half-staff now, for him. The funeral was standing room only, and afterwards there was a luncheon in the small town he grew up in, bowls and pans and Nesco cookers lined up on the counter in the town hall, full of food cooked and served at no charge by the women of the town. My second grade teacher was there, cousins of cousins were there, sons and daughters and grandchildren of deceased friends were there. My parents have been divorced for thirty years but she was there, and some of her siblings came, and some of her friends. A man who worked for him for years broke down and cried outside the funeral home. There was an honor guard, and each of the grandkids received a spent shell from the volley.
My grandmother gave my brother my grandfather's watch. My cousin Kyle got a coin he carried all through the war. I got his pocketknife. When I was a little girl we would sit on the tailgate of his pickup truck and share an apple, and he would cut it into slices with his knife, and let me fold the blade back in when we were done.
About ten years ago there was a Christmas where money was tight for my grandparents but not for me, and before I left their house on Christmas day I rolled up a twenty dollar bill and stuck it through a wreath-shaped ornament on the tree, for them to find when they took it down. When I saw them a few weeks later, my grandma asked if I had left it there and I said yes. She said, "Grandpa said right away it was you." I laughed and said, "How did you know?" and my Grandpa said, "Because you have a good heart."
I got that from him, too.
Age nine. Look at that face!
When I visited in July he had just been moved to a nursing home, and I spent the day there with him and my grandma, looking at pictures. This is my grandparents sixty-five years ago, and just two months ago.
Count von Count would like you to know that over at Dreamwidth this post has
comments! Ah ha ha ha ha!