dear grandpa

Dear Grandpa,

It was a sunny day. I am going to assume it was a sunny day, since we were working outside and it was most likely summer. To be honest, I don’t remember a single thing from that day—I was only three, after all—but I have heard the story so many times I have a pretty clear image in my mind. 

So, it was a sunny day. You were doing some work outside, probably chopping or stacking wood. After a while, your cute little granddaughter (me) came out to join you. Or not. For some reason that none of us remembers, or probably ever knew, I picked up one of the gravel stones from the driveway… and threw it at you. 

I must have had good aim because if I had not hit you, you would not have told me this story so many times. 

Well, you made it very clear that throwing rocks at Grandpa is not okay. I refused to apologize, so you made me sit on the front step of the house until I said sorry. I must have inherited some of your stubbornness. Perhaps more than you bargained for. 

Most three-year-olds would give in after a minute or two. Not this one. After letting me sit by myself for quite some time, you tried enticing me to join you. You got out my little plastic wheelbarrow and started carrying the wood, one chopped piece at a time, from the stack to the woodshed. It probably took you five times as long and was hard on your back, but you did your best to make it look like the most fun activity in the world. 

Still I did not apologize. 

I think your story changed a bit over the years. There is no telling how long I was actually sitting there on the front step, but in the version I remember it totaled somewhere around an hour. Finally, when something other than your enthusiastic wood-carrying caught my attention, I stood up, said a quick and insincere “sorry,” and dashed off. 

You told me that story so many times. In fact, I first saw evidence of your Alzheimer’s when we went to visit you one summer and you forgot to tell me that story. I was relieved at first, but it wasn’t long before I actually started to miss it, the way you would act shocked every time you said I threw the stone, as if it was the first time you were hearing it. 

So then I started telling you the story. For the first few years, you would listen and follow along. One time I remember when I got to the rock-throwing part, your eyes got wide and you said, “You did that?!” From that point, it really was the first time you were hearing the story, every time. In the past several years I don’t know how much you understood or even heard, but I am not one to break tradition, and that story has become a bit of a tradition for me. Never mind that it doesn’t put me in a very good light, but don’t forget I blame the stubbornness on you. 

Now I will find someone else to listen to that story. 

I miss you, Grandpa, but I have been missing you for a long time. We all have. Alzheimer’s robbed us of much of you, one little piece at a time—first a story, then our names (though Grandma was never good at names in the first place so I can see how that would be confusing for you), and eventually even the dancing stopped. You were a fantastic dancer. I remember a few years ago when you were still living at home, we were listening to some of your old-timey music when you danced across the living room and extended your hand to me, lazily seated on the couch. You were always such a gentleman. I got up and followed your lead, and we did the same two or three dance moves for half an hour, song after song after song. You may not have had many moves left, but the ones you had were smooth, with your little steps and strong hands. We all loved dancing with you. 

One of my favorite things is to read through your old letters to Grandma. I remember one in particular that you wrote when the two of you were engaged. The beginning went something along the lines of, “Dear Pat, Congratulations, I read in the paper you are engaged! Who is the lucky man?” That was one of many times I thought to myself that I want to marry someone like you. I think I did pretty well with that. 

And then the time with the bicycle. Our visits to Iowa in the summers were the only times we could ride bikes to get places. We had bikes at home growing up, but on a gravel driveway on top of a hill three miles out of town they were more for recreation than transportation. It was fun to come to your house and get the bikes geared up, whether it was for a loop around the block or a trip to Dairy Queen. You would pump up the tires and adjust the seats until we were all outfitted with something that suited us. 

Only I always got stuck with the Schwinn. 

Was that your bike from when you were a teenager? It was so heavy! That green chunk of heavy metal with no gears and pedal brakes. I was a little embarrassed to ride it at first, and it was years before I appreciated it enough to be proud of it. Eventually I got there though. 

When they took away your driver’s license you were disappointed, until you remembered the Schwinn. What a great way to get around! Grandma was apprehensive—I mean, that bike was about as old as you, and you were no spring chicken—so she insisted you get it checked out before using it. There was no way it could be safe. 

When you two took it to the bike shop, the worker was amazed at what great condition the bike was in. He kept exclaiming about it, and you just stood there listening and laughing. And laughing. And laughing. Gosh, for how loving and generous you were, you sure did like to be right. 

And you were loving. Just look at your family. An unloving husband doesn’t have a wife who selflessly cares for him day in and day out for over a decade, even when he forgets her name. An unloving father doesn’t have three children who all live in different states but are at his bedside when he dies. An unloving grandfather wouldn’t be in all my dance recital photos, and softball, and graduation, even though he had to take a plane to get to every single one. 

You, Big Daddy, have set a high standard for the rest of us. Thank you for that. 

I loved when I lived in Wisconsin and got to visit you every month. I had friends growing up whose grandparents lived in the same town and I was always a bit jealous of them. But visiting you was an adventure of its own, whether I was ten and staying for a few weeks or twenty-two and staying for a few days. 

Thank you for the cabin. I don’t remember a time without it and I am okay with that. It may not have ended up being the retirement retreat you and Grandma had hoped it would be, but no one can count the wonderful memories made there, and still to be made. 

I am so happy for you. For years you have been trapped inside that mind, that body, things which were not built to last. Now, for the first time in a long time, I know you are free. Free to laugh and dance and speak your mind clearly and worship our Lord right in front of Him and not have anything stopping you. I am so happy for you, and of course a bit sad for us. But I know Jesus gets to take care of you now, though I will say He has His work cut out for Him because Grandma set an extremely high standard. 

You are loved, Grandpa. But you know that already.

I did my best to prepare for losing you. We all did, but there is only so much preparation one can do. Especially since moving to Uganda--and losing Grandpa Don during my first year here--I tried to assume every time I saw you was the last, so that when it was true I wouldn't feel like I had missed a goodbye. I am so happy Christian and I came to visit in February, four days after getting married no less. It was really important to me that he got to meet you. I have and will continue to tell him stories about you, and he believes me when I remind him that he married into a really good family. 

The best part about that trip? The morning we were leaving, I gave you a big awkward side-hug-thing in your wheelchair, and you reached up and held onto my arm for awhile. Grandma smiled and said you were hugging me. 

A couple months ago, Christian and I were talking about when we start a family. It went something like this: 

Me: If we have a boy, I would love to name him after Grandpa. The only problem is Tom sounds like an old man name, Tommy sounds like a boy’s name forever, Thompson isn’t really a first name, we have a Thomas we love already, and to be completely honest I don’t really like the name Neill. 

Christian: It’s settled then. 

Me: What? 

Christian: We’ll have to name our son Grandpa. 

Thanks for being the best grandpa. I love you. And I am really, truly happy for you. 

Love,

Katie

our last photo with Grandpa in February