It's been awhile since I've blogged, busy with life in
general but I'm dusting off the blog tonight.
Today is October 5th; my grandfather has been gone 12 years
today and yet not a day in that time has gone by without me thinking of him.
Sometimes briefly, sometimes deeply, often with regret but always fondly.
I'm writing this blog entry more for myself than anyone, so
I will take no offense if you choose to move on to more entertaining and well
written blogs. If you do continue to
read, I will try my best to tell you the tale of farmer's son.
My grandfather had twelve siblings as was not extraordinary
for the period or the place, the land was big and hands were needed to till the
soil. Sadly he lost most of his family during
the influenza outbreak; I think that's what instilled within him the need to
care for others as an adult. Despite hardship and pain in his life, he remained
a family rock; even when burying a his first grandchild in tragedy and later a
daughter through illness.
He was not formally educated, but brilliant in his own
way. A funny anecdote: The University of
Arkansas' head of the horticulture department twice approached him, wanting to
know why this lone sharecropper produced twice the cotton yield as his
neighbors, who had hired hands and larger acreage. My grandfather couldn't
tell him anything more than "you have to care for the land." The
professor left feeling snubbed and my grandfather, bewildered.
My gosh could that man make things grow! I often think his greatest frustration came
from the sticks that he used to support saplings, they would inevitably take
root and need to be replaced. He just could not help but make plants grow.
He was quiet, not in a shy way but rather as if words were
gold coins, to be spent only when necessary.
Some of my fondest memories are fishing beside him on a riverbank, hours
of conversations without a single word being passed. That was the thing; in silence he could
convey his thoughts and feelings far better than the most eloquent speaker. Walking along atop of a fence, holding one end
of a stick as he held the other, was the safest feeling in the world. And when
the world was crumbling, that worn and giant of a hand on your shoulder was a
far better balm than any medicine.
He taught me that everything in life is connected; the water, the land, you, me, we're all part
of one giant ecosystem and if one part fails, you help. You don't break the
chain; you dig in and give, not for some reward but because it's the right
thing to do. He taught me to stand up for what I believe in and that courage
and kindness are gifts to be shared.
He taught me that a person's value isn't determined by
wealth or possessions, that we're all made up of the same material. He had no tolerance
for racism or bigotry and for someone born deep in the Ozarks at the turn of
the century, that was quite a rarity. As was he.
Whatever fine qualities I may arguably possess, are all attributed
to him. I never told him of the tremendous impact he'd made on my life, but I desperately hope that he knew.
I loved him dearly.
Thank you for taking the time to read.
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