Grandpa

It seems odd; this undertaking, concluding a man’s life in a summary of words. It seems a rather impossible task to condense a lifetime of happiness and hard work into a few paragraphs. Because, if I think about it, I truly believe the most beautiful things in life cannot translate onto paper. There is no way to quantify the love a man shows to his wife, his children, his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. There are no words to describe the feeling comfort, hard work and happiness that bled from his soul into our lives.

And I think that it’s a wonderful thing; the inability to write a human soul onto paper—we’re ethereal things, humans. We live and laugh and fall into and out of love and at the end of it all we die. We all leave this realm and move into what’s next and the circle ends in the dust of where it began.

But I want to talk about him anyway because my grandfather was a wonderful and reliable man. When he was 18 he bought 300 acres of stunning farmland in Upstate New York and lived there for the next seven decades. He raised dairy cattle and made hay and built his family on that land; and he loved it.

I spent summers there as a kid with my sister and cousin Devin; playing in the hay-loft of the barn, running through the forest and the fields and falling in love with the animals and the sky and the land. We’d pile back into the house at the end of the day sun-kissed and smeared with dirt, tree bark dusting our hair like dandruff, and smelling of the wind. Those were the days of innocence and childhood purity, and they’re tangled with memories of him. Those memories come in snippets; freeze frames like still photographs in my mind.

Cows. He had dairy cattle and would get up before dawn every day to milk them. At dawn he’d drive down the hill to the barn and flip on the lights and work until breakfast. He taught me how to milk a cow in that barn; the obsolescent way of bucket and milk stool, leaning your forehead into her side, feeling her warmth, watching the milk foam into the bucket.

News and oatmeal. We’d barely be awake when he came back from the morning milking. When we slipped downstairs blurry-eyed and smelling of sleep he’d be eating his oatmeal by the radio, listening to the morning news.

Cars. There were always cars on the farm; all types and in all stages of operation. Junkers and fixer-uppers. Cars for scrap and cars for family members. He used to freak Devin out with his driving; taking corners by driving straight through them in the wrong lane. When we asked why he’d just laugh and say he was “saving rubber on the tires.”

Hay and sweat. Summers in upstate New York are hotter than you would think. I spent many steamy hot afternoons helping bring in the hay. Grandpa would bale it and drive the hay wagon to the barn, where he and my uncle, aunt, mom, cousins and I would help unload it. Half of us would climb up the ladder into the hayloft of the barn and stack the hay as it came in, riding on a special track. This track was about 3 feet wide, a skeleton of metal with a toothed chain in the middle to grab the bales of hay as they were set on it and drag them into the barn and to where they’d be dropped and then stacked. The track ran along under the tin roof of the barn, spanning its whole length. It was adjustable so as the barn filled up the track could be shortened to drop the hay wherever it was the most convenient to stack. Occasionally a bale would slip off the toothed chain and become wedged between the sides of the track. Being small willing to climb, it was generally my job to climb to the roof and un-lodge bales when they got stuck. I’d be all the way at the top of the barn. Twenty feet above the floor, hanging onto the metal of the track, sweat trickling down my arms and soaking through my jeans. The air up there was always sweet-smelling and stiflingly hot. I would look down at the hay-covered floor and think how it probably wouldn’t hurt that much if I were to fall since the ground was covered in 3 feet of loose hay. I’d shove the stuck bale off and scramble down before they would re-start the track and send more bales up. Despite being that high above the ground, or grappling hay bales that were half my weight, I never felt afraid up in the roof; it was a place of comfort to me; a place where I felt at home.

Stones. I remember he plowed a field to replant the hay one summer, and my cousins, mom, aunt and I helped him pick up rocks that had been overturned by the plow. He drove the tractor through the field with a trailer and we walked along-side picking up stones that had been pulled up by the plow and tossing them into the trailer.

Wood smoke. My grandparent’s house was heated primarily by wood stove. Grandpa would stoke the fire in the cold, early winter mornings. I’d wake up to the squeak of the stove door opening and the sound of fresh logs clunking into the coals.

My grandfather was a devout Christian; a man whose faith was as reliable as the sunrise. I suppose being so connected to the land makes it hard to doubt in a higher power. He just had faith—he knew—he believed with a quiet strength; one quite different from my grandmother’s. Her faith manifests itself in giving Bible studies (to neighbors, friends, whomever will listen), preaching and writing. Her faith is bold, vibrant; his was earthy. Their faith together was like flowers and soil.

My grandfather was gentle, kind, and genuine. A man that taught me the importance of hard work and how it feels after a long day to come inside and sit down to a home-cooked meal, hold hands and say grace. A man that always smelled of hay and oats, grease and wood smoke. A man who the world is better off because of, and worse off without. A man I am proud to call grandpa.

(All photo credits for this post courtesy of my mother’s archives)