How many people make it to 96 years? Not too many, but my Grandpa did. Grandpa Bill, my Mom's Dad, was a special man. I can remember from the time I was little, his sparkling eyes, infectious grins, eager hands, quiet spirit. He passed away less than two weeks ago. I'm here in the mountains and we couldn't afford to go back for the funeral. So, I'm grieving through emails and Skype. I'm remembering him even as he's far away.
Grandpa Bill loved the outdoors. He worked as a farmer and herdsman his whole life. I can remember going with him to check the cattle. We'd head out in the pickup, over the fields. He'd always notice small things: a delicate prairie flower, a new water bird on the pond, a calf that seemed to have lost its way. I can remember him pretending like he didn't know what species one of the birds on his property was. He'd direct me to the bird book he kept in the glove compartment and I'd search for it and learn as we worked. We'd go on hikes together and he'd comment on a brightly-colored beetle, a tree that looked diseased, teaching me about the prairie grasses and the woods he'd lived in for all those decades. In his last weeks, he told a story about the last hike I ever took with him. His knees were getting bad, but he took a trip with my family to Tennessee. I knew of a paved walkway that wasn't too long and ended in a spectacular look-out over a lush, pine valley. I slowed my steps to enjoy the stroll with him. As we went, I told him, "I always see more when I walk with you." I guess that meant a lot because he remembered that and shared it with my Mom. Actually, as I've gone on hikes with my cousin, Jared, I've felt the same way. So, Grandpa passed it on.
Grandpa Bill worked hard with his hands. His hands were probably the coolest I've seen. They had thick, strong fingers. Deep callouses and tough muscles. Usually a cut or some grease or dirt reminded you that they'd just been at some task. I never heard him complain, even though he had to quit school in the middle of high school to provide for his family when his father got sick. He'd worked hard through the depression and WWII on the farm. As his body got older and he could do less and less, he never grumbled. I'd ask, "How are you feeling, Grandpa?" With one of his famous grins, he'd answer, "Well, I'm 93 (or 94 or 95). What can I expect?" Then he'd laugh and we'd move on to something else. As he's laid up his work, I can see a hard-working spirit in his offspring and their offspring. My cousin, Brian, is building a auto-body shop on the land that Grandpa used to work so hard on. The hard work will continue. So, Grandpa passed it on.
Grandpa Bill loved music. I learned to swing dance when I went with him and my Grandma Lucille (who Lucy is named after) to big band dances. Grandpa would take turns dancing with me or with Grandma. If we were dancing, though, and Glenn Miller's "In the Mood" came on, he would leave me with, "I've got to go get my girl!" He and Grandma would bop around the ballroom to their favorite song. He also loved to sing. His deep, bass voice would boom out under choir anthems at church or burst into song as he wove a story from his past. What a beautiful voice it was. I always loved to sit next to him during family sing-a-longs. His love of music encouraged our family to bring our vast array of instruments to Christmas dinner and we would have an impromptu carol-sing. His 90th birthday celebration was a testament when each of his grandchildren grabbed an instrument and we played "In the Mood" as he and an old friend danced. Grandpa passed it on.
Grandpa Bill could weave a tale. I can remember countless afternoons, sipping A&W in his living room. You had to be quiet. You had to wait. A good story isn't rushed. I learned so much from his stories about what he'd experienced, what mattered to him, how to live. I have heard so many of those stories repeated by my Mom and Aunt and Uncle. Grandpa passed it on.
I can imagine him now, near the throne. Dancing with Grandma, joining in the singing, joyful and jubilant. He was in a lot of pain and not himself for the last days, so I'm so thankful he's at home now. Man, I'll miss his influence. But, he has passed it on. As I reflected on his life, I wrote this poem:
Legacy
What will you leave?
Gold stored up in heaping storerooms
Mansions on manicured lawns
Statues, towers reaching towards the sky declaring, “I was here, I was important, I was worth something!”
That gold will be squandered, stolen, used and misused
Mansions, statues, towers crumble, rust, break down
Legacy
What will you leave?
A faith that turns to God for comfort, for hope, for joy
A love that quietly and humbly leads from quiet, humble actions
A gentleness that reigns in tempers and passions, calms people and creatures
Legacy
What will you leave?
There are no mansions, no rooms full of gold and jewels, no self-declaring spires against the sky.
There are quiet walks through the woods, realizing and affirming God’s grandeur
There are days of steady, solid work performed by thick hands that wouldn’t back down from hard labor
There are songs, deep and sure, true and jolly, lived in and enjoyed, sang and danced
There are stories, slowly unfolding in afternoon chats, memories that become our memories
There are games, when you work hard you can relax and enjoy
Legacy
What will we leave?
Perhaps a part of what has come before
The faith, love, and gentleness that we’ve witnessed may walk a bit in each of us
We move forward in that legacy, a living one
Sure love you and will miss you, Grandpa Bill!
Grandpa Bill loved the outdoors. He worked as a farmer and herdsman his whole life. I can remember going with him to check the cattle. We'd head out in the pickup, over the fields. He'd always notice small things: a delicate prairie flower, a new water bird on the pond, a calf that seemed to have lost its way. I can remember him pretending like he didn't know what species one of the birds on his property was. He'd direct me to the bird book he kept in the glove compartment and I'd search for it and learn as we worked. We'd go on hikes together and he'd comment on a brightly-colored beetle, a tree that looked diseased, teaching me about the prairie grasses and the woods he'd lived in for all those decades. In his last weeks, he told a story about the last hike I ever took with him. His knees were getting bad, but he took a trip with my family to Tennessee. I knew of a paved walkway that wasn't too long and ended in a spectacular look-out over a lush, pine valley. I slowed my steps to enjoy the stroll with him. As we went, I told him, "I always see more when I walk with you." I guess that meant a lot because he remembered that and shared it with my Mom. Actually, as I've gone on hikes with my cousin, Jared, I've felt the same way. So, Grandpa passed it on.
Grandpa Bill worked hard with his hands. His hands were probably the coolest I've seen. They had thick, strong fingers. Deep callouses and tough muscles. Usually a cut or some grease or dirt reminded you that they'd just been at some task. I never heard him complain, even though he had to quit school in the middle of high school to provide for his family when his father got sick. He'd worked hard through the depression and WWII on the farm. As his body got older and he could do less and less, he never grumbled. I'd ask, "How are you feeling, Grandpa?" With one of his famous grins, he'd answer, "Well, I'm 93 (or 94 or 95). What can I expect?" Then he'd laugh and we'd move on to something else. As he's laid up his work, I can see a hard-working spirit in his offspring and their offspring. My cousin, Brian, is building a auto-body shop on the land that Grandpa used to work so hard on. The hard work will continue. So, Grandpa passed it on.
Grandpa Bill loved music. I learned to swing dance when I went with him and my Grandma Lucille (who Lucy is named after) to big band dances. Grandpa would take turns dancing with me or with Grandma. If we were dancing, though, and Glenn Miller's "In the Mood" came on, he would leave me with, "I've got to go get my girl!" He and Grandma would bop around the ballroom to their favorite song. He also loved to sing. His deep, bass voice would boom out under choir anthems at church or burst into song as he wove a story from his past. What a beautiful voice it was. I always loved to sit next to him during family sing-a-longs. His love of music encouraged our family to bring our vast array of instruments to Christmas dinner and we would have an impromptu carol-sing. His 90th birthday celebration was a testament when each of his grandchildren grabbed an instrument and we played "In the Mood" as he and an old friend danced. Grandpa passed it on.
Grandpa Bill could weave a tale. I can remember countless afternoons, sipping A&W in his living room. You had to be quiet. You had to wait. A good story isn't rushed. I learned so much from his stories about what he'd experienced, what mattered to him, how to live. I have heard so many of those stories repeated by my Mom and Aunt and Uncle. Grandpa passed it on.
I can imagine him now, near the throne. Dancing with Grandma, joining in the singing, joyful and jubilant. He was in a lot of pain and not himself for the last days, so I'm so thankful he's at home now. Man, I'll miss his influence. But, he has passed it on. As I reflected on his life, I wrote this poem:
Legacy
What will you leave?
Gold stored up in heaping storerooms
Mansions on manicured lawns
Statues, towers reaching towards the sky declaring, “I was here, I was important, I was worth something!”
That gold will be squandered, stolen, used and misused
Mansions, statues, towers crumble, rust, break down
Legacy
What will you leave?
A faith that turns to God for comfort, for hope, for joy
A love that quietly and humbly leads from quiet, humble actions
A gentleness that reigns in tempers and passions, calms people and creatures
Legacy
What will you leave?
There are no mansions, no rooms full of gold and jewels, no self-declaring spires against the sky.
There are quiet walks through the woods, realizing and affirming God’s grandeur
There are days of steady, solid work performed by thick hands that wouldn’t back down from hard labor
There are songs, deep and sure, true and jolly, lived in and enjoyed, sang and danced
There are stories, slowly unfolding in afternoon chats, memories that become our memories
There are games, when you work hard you can relax and enjoy
Legacy
What will we leave?
Perhaps a part of what has come before
The faith, love, and gentleness that we’ve witnessed may walk a bit in each of us
We move forward in that legacy, a living one
Sure love you and will miss you, Grandpa Bill!
I had to read this, breaking for a bit between each paragraph. So tender. This was a wonderful tribute, is a wonderful inheritance. Legacy is very important to me. We will leave one, whether it be Godly or otherwise. Grandpa Bill left a beautiful legacy, you're proof of that, Love and prayers to you and your family.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Terry! You know those people that you wish everyone could meet just because they're so cool? I guess this was my way of trying to let everyone meet him :)
ReplyDelete