When I think of my Grandpa, I see him sitting cross legged, in a honey colored oak chair, with a sun faded baseball cap propped up above his eyeglasses, lazily strumming his guitar and bobbing his foot along to the music, while he whistles, in a red cabin on Long Lake. The water like glass out the window framed with lake spiders, and Grandma making homemade strawberry jam toast and hot coffee kept warm by the sun, just before a perfect morning, skiing behind the old Cris Craft.
I think of Grandpa’s long stories and his tall tales. I share one just the way he told me about a little boy who collected abandoned coal near the railroad tracks to bring home to his mother to keep the fires going and the family warm. Grandpa was always good at keeping others warm.
I remember the late nights in dance halls, with wooden floors and country line dancers dressed in western shirts and hats and boots with tassels. With Grandpa playing the greats and asking Grandma to dance another song with him, gliding to the music like two figure skaters in perfect harmony, and me thinking, this must be what true love is. It made me feel safe and happy to pick through the candy dish for something sweet as I watch Grandma gracefully spin under Grandpa’s hand and cuddle into his side.
I remember the campfires and the songs Grandpa would lead. About the bears in the bed who tied their jammies together and the animals down by the bay where the watermelons grow and the Red River Valley and the one who loved so true. How we’d stay up late into the night warming our feet on the cement slabs by the firepit, filling up on hobo pies with apple and cherry until our stomachs and hearts were full and our hands gooey from sticky pie filling and toasted marshmallows. How time seemed to slip away and it felt like it’d last forever there with Grandpa, up north in our summer cabins with nights and stars that went on forever.
I think of the white Christmases at Grandma and Grandpa’s house where the trees sparkled in the windows and you could see all of us gathered by the organ singing Christmas carols. Grandpa with a proud smile on his face as we read the words on weathered old sheet music, even though we knew it by heart. How Grandpa would always begin by giving Grandma the first gift from under the tree, something shiny and beautiful. Where we’d cozy up and share stories eating seconds and thirds of Christmas dinner, something roasting in the oven, playing games at the table or on the floor, laughing and loving and lingering as long as we could.
I remember how Grandpa had a way of making ordinary days feel special. The memories I have of him are some of the most cherished moments of my life. Memories of pure joy that I hold close to my heart and think of often and fondly. I think of how those memories stay with me, even as everything else changes. How I can close my eyes and be right back there, at the lake, by the campfire, in the dance hall, next to the Christmas tree. I think, what a gift it is to be together, wherever we are, with a little more time to tell another story.
I love you Grandpa.
Always,
Your Emmy
