My Grandpa's Garden

I was outside watering my small little produce garden the other night when I was struck with a powerful memory of my Grandfather.  At one point, during my youth, my Grandparents lived on 5 acres in Vancouver, WA and my Grandpa had an enormous garden - dozens of rows of mature fruit and vegetable plants that he tended to with love and patience. He watered those rows in the evenings, by hand, and I liked to go outside and run circles around him in the garden and the adjacent orchard to keep him company.

The long arc of his watering hose was a source of entertainment, my long, skinny legs running quickly underneath it and occasionally he would lower that stream - soaking my awkward limbs and chuckling all the while. Tending to my own plants this evening I was struck by how clearly this epitomized my Grandpa.  He was a man who knew how to work and work hard to accomplish anything that needed to be done - constantly moving and going and doing. But he also loved to laugh and smile so big that his eyes got squinty and a jovial bellow emerged from his core.

I often feel like I got the best of my Grandpa.  We were close. He had four sons and was often working and driving truck during their childhoods.  But me? The first grandchild? I got his early retirement years when he was learning to move slower and had more time to tell stories and make new memories. I am the lucky one.

My Grandpa and I were pals, traveling many miles together in his pickup truck, back and forth throughout Washington, Oregon, and California every summer and as often as we could manage in between. He liked to hot box the truck to get me good, stop for burgers and milk shakes on the road, and to tell stories and jokes with every passing mile. He said when I was younger that I could convince him to do anything (and often did - my chores!) and so he called me Conman from my youngest days until our very last conversation.

It was Father's Day, last year. He was bed ridden with cancer at that point and couldn't make it downstairs to visit family who came to honor him. I was heartbroken that day because I knew.  And he knew.  He let me know that he was so sorry he wouldn't be here to meet the baby in my belly - we had made a pact years ago, in the midst of my infertility journey, that he would hold on long enough to hold my first child.

But he was so tired. His spirit was saddened to be let down by his body so completely.  He confided to me that seeing everyone was really hard for him - that he wanted to be alone and to suffer quietly. We hugged many times that day, he rubbed my belly some more.  He told Josh and I he was so glad he got to see us.  And by the time we left, I knew that was it.  The next time I saw him it was near the end and I'm not entirely sure he knew it was me holding his hand and silently telling him it was okay to go.

I know that he would love Sam. He adored every one of his grandkids and great grandkids - I know she would be no different.  I think he would see me in her face and smile at how small I used to be.  He would laugh heartily at how sure he was that Sam was going to be a boy - and then laugh harder still when he was reminded that he thought the same with me when I was born.

It still takes my breath away that he is gone.  I am still so pained by this loss that I cannot cry or process it's severity.

I miss you so much, Grandpa.  But I know you would smile so big to see me watering this small garden of mine - someday Sam can run beneath that arc and I will spray her too, and smile at the memories of you.

You're always with me. With all of us.