Don't forget to remember, part 2

I was lucky to know all four of my grandparents. Russell Ward Osgood was my mother’s father; I called him Grampy. I sat on his lap as a little girl and rode on his tractor with him while he mowed the lawn. And then I mostly just watched him. He had quiet down to a science. He rarely spoke, only when he had something important to say. He walked quietly, though he carried a large frame. He danced smoothly and lovingly with my grandmother. He sat in the corner chair wearing his green uniform…work shirt and matching work pants, like Dickies or Carhartts, reading mystery novels or the newspaper. But what he gave me was a love for the outdoors. During the day, he would go off to the sawmill to work. When he returned he would stack his own woodpile as if it were a work of art, and it was. There was a small glass greenhouse extending off the basement of the home he built. He would spend hours there, getting seedlings started and ready for the garden. Petunias and other bedding flowers were started there also, before planting out along his front foundation for summer color. Tilling the garden, making long furrows, was also an intentional practice, loose and straight, and in full sun. Peas, and beans, and of course potatoes, tomatoes, cucumbers and more went into the perfect soil. Grampy drove us kids in his pickup truck the day of the infamous “accident”, where we all miraculously survived. He did not make a big production out of all his broken bones and smashed stepside, or his trip to the hospital. I never remember hearing the story from him, it was just another day, and he did what he had to do. During my high school years, he came to visit us in Massachusetts after my mom had surgery. It was getting dark and I went looking for him, finding him on the front porch staring at the sky. “Whatcha doing Grampy?” I asked. He pointed at the moon. “When I got out here it was over there,” pointing to the left. “Now it’s here.” Moving his large finger to the right directing it at the full moon. And that was the extent of our conversation. He was 82 when he died, quietly as he lived. I was 32, a young mother, and he had met both of my children. I remember him especially this weekend, because it is time for planting. I find myself talking to him as I put seeds in the ground, asking him if he would do it this way. I remember you, Grampy, and look forward to the next full moon when we can look at it together. You have blessed my life so quietly.