Don't forget to remember, post 3

My father’s father died at the age of 76.  I called him Grampy, and he was so full of life to die so young.  I remember him telling me that he is the last person he’d ever think would get cancer as if he, too, thought he would live forever.  But he smoked from the minute he got up til he went to bed, and probably suffered from PTSD, though he had no use for labels and those letters weren’t part of his vocabulary like they are ours.  He will have a flag at his grave to indicate his service…he was a CB, construction battalion member, who served in the Philippines during WWII.  He didn’t talk about it much, but I did hear a story that a comrade was blown up right in front of him, missing Grampy by inches.  It changed him.  But that was before I knew him.

Grampy was in many ways the complete opposite of my mother’s father.  His cars were shiny, his shoes were shiny, his hair was slick, and he was not silent.  He loved to tell a story, and start an argument.  He was full of challenges, having us kids compete…how fast can you run? How long can you hold a hand stand?  How good is your cartwheel?  How far can you swim?  If I dared speak at the dinner table, I’d better be willing and able to defend my opinion…he liked to argue and debate.  He would take me for motorcycle rides on the back country roads of New Hampshire, just to go for a ride.  He taught me to get back in the saddle when I fell off, literally.  We both shared an interest in horses, so he gave me his cherished army saddle and would take me riding, and when I got bucked off, and got back on, it made him proud.  I started my college career in equine studies, and did a lot of riding on that saddle as a young woman, thanks to his encouragement.  He wanted me to play piano so badly, he said I had the fingers for it, whatever that means.  With no money for lessons and no piano, I traded housework and cat sitting in the home of a nearby piano teacher for practice time and tutoring.  I learned to play, thanks to his encouragement.  One of my favorite memories of Grampy was of him holding a honey bee in the palm of his hand on a cold spring morning.  The bee had lost its way from the hive and appeared to be dead in the snow. He put a drop of honey on his finger for the bee to “lick”…he revived it and calmly returned it to one of his beehives.  Though I’ve seen him exhibit a nasty temper at times, this moment revealed his tender, gentle side and love for life.  I became a beekeeper many years later, thanks to his example.  He truly was larger than life to me, he made me feel like his favorite, as I’m sure he did his other grandkids.  I think of him often, especially when I am gardening and a honey bee comes over to sip nectar on a flower near my fingers, I smile and say hello.