Grandpa and You

Your father and your great-grandfather had a very special relationship. They lived together out on that farm for years before your great-grandpa Herb died. Though his passing wasn't sudden, the impact of his death (or better stated, the ending of his life) left an indelible mark on your father's soul. Your dad wrote about it and the essay was published as "Grandpa and Me."

Though their time together was cut short, they did have time together-- to get to know one another, to grow together, to learn from each other, to create memories together. Your great grandfather shaped the boy who grew into the man that is your father. It is hard to say how different your Dad would be were it not for Herb. Perhaps he would be less thoughtful, less observant, less confident, less funny. Perhaps he would be more selfish, more impatient, more critical, more temperamental. Regardless of what the differences may have been, even never having met Herb, I know he would not be as good a man had he not have had his grandpa.

That's part of what makes your Papa Paul's passing so hard. He had so much to teach you, Nori. Such big shoes to fill-- I'm not sure how many surrogates we will need to do even half the job he would have done as your grandpa. Even in the short five months that he knew you, he loved you so much. That's the first thing I want you to know about him. And even though you may never be able to write a composition called "Grandpa and Me," I want you to feel as if you knew him. I want his life to leave an indelible mark upon your character even though the paths of your existence crossed only so briefly. And while it will take all the years of our lives to fully honour what he would have been to you, there is no time like the present to begin.

He wasn't a tall man. Or a big man. Well, he had a big personality and a great big face (if you don't know what I mean, just look at your Dad and your Ant Kate).

His eyes sparkled with laughter. His nose worked to sniff out the truth. His mouth sang hymns and spoke with ever so slight a whistle. His ears sat attentive whenever we spoke (or whenever you babbled). His hair was a stubbly field of summer fallow. His skin was worn leather creased from the smiles it wore.

His back was strong. Though it ached, he never complained. His hands smelled of the earth and were calloused from the work he loved-- farming and writing. Those hands were always as dirty as they were honest. His feet and the land were the best of friends, even though work boots and holey socks came between them.

He had the biggest brain of any man I have ever known. I don't know how he fit the whole thing in his head. I wonder if his neck ever got tired carrying all that knowledge around. He knew about birds and psychology and seeds and trains and words and delivering calves and politics and hunting and weather and religion and everything else in between. Anything he ever wanted to know, he found a way to learn. He was never content not knowing.

The only thing bigger than his brain was his heart. I'm sure it didn't start out so big, but he just kept letting in people and animals alike and couldn't turn anyone away. I'm sure even the animals he hunted (both big game and political) felt his love before he brought them down. I would say that he was forgiving to a fault, but it is only my lack of ability to forgive that makes me characterize it that way, so that is my fault, not his.

He wasn't perfect, Norah, no one is, but he probably would have been in your eyes just as you were in his, and so that's how I want you to know him. And in spite of his death, you will know him. We will make sure of it.