One year ago, I said goodbye to my gentle giant of a grandfather. Calm, quiet and disciplined, his passing has left a hole in my heart, as well as my family's hearts that will never be filled. One year of holidays, birthdays, and sadly, the passing of his youngest son - all of which would have been more tolerable had we had his steady calming presence and the ability to fall into his massive arms for a giant bear hug.
It's hard, losing an anchor in life. In just two short years after moving to DC, I've lost two of the most important people in my family, my grandpa and my uncle.
"Weekends at Grandma and Grandpa's" were never required nor unwanted growing up. Some of my happiest memories revolve around the swing set Grandpa built us, learning how to drive on a rusty tractor, or breathing in more sawdust than was healthy out in the barn. Sometimes I find myself now voluntarily turning on golf commentary just to feel that sense of rightness with the world on a sunny Sunday afternoon.
There are certain things that bring about more sadness than others - the fact that I never actually read Wood magazine (yes it's a real magazine) or know how to use any of the hundreds of tools out in the barn. I used to tease him relentlessly about his many scrapes and bruises the blood thinners would cause when he worked out in the barn, but to be honest - I'm more likely to cut a finger off out there unattended. The fact I never actually learned how to golf. I know that I had a special connection to him in many ways, but I guess I would have liked to have spent some real time out on the course with him when I had the chance. It's not often you know an 80 year old who is forced to golf at the championship level tee because he's too good. The fact I never learned how to "sell pumps" when shaking hands. I can't tell you the amount of times I've had the urge to do it to one of my nanny kids in this past year...but I can't.
I know that he's in a better place and that makes it almost okay not having him here anymore...almost. It still hurts to know that the grandpa that made half my bedroom furniture and my own custom crib for my mother when she was pregnant with me will never be able to whip up another custom item for me when I can't find something I like in the store. I haven't truly baked something since he died - there just isn't the same enjoyment in finding a recipe and making it from scratch, eagerly waiting for his grin of approval.
To be completely honest, chair naps will never be the same. Their house will never be the same. It's too quiet without his giant rumblings at all hours, his finger poke clicking at computer keys working out golf spreadsheets, and his constant "I can fix it," remarks to anything and everything that got broken.
A few months ago, I had a dream. I walked into my grandparents' house and my grandpa was sitting in his chair, just like usual. I walked up to him, confused and said, "But, you're not here anymore. You died...how are you here?" He smiled, opening his arms as I hugged him and he said, "It's okay. I'm just here for the afternoon." And then we just sat together, in his big blue chair for a while, and it was the most peaceful dream I may have ever had. When I woke up, I felt the loss more than I probably have at any other time.
What I wouldn't give to have one more afternoon sitting together in that chair.
So, Grandpa, if they have wifi up in Heaven and you read this, I hope you're keeping the chair open for that day I make it up there, because it'll be the first thing we do. Then, you're going to teach me how to sell pumps when I shake hands and THEN I'll make that strawberry rhubarb pie I always wanted to try for you.
