ツ Hey Gramps…

Gramps,

It’s been a long time since I’ve written, sorry about that – it’s about time.

I don’t know why you made me feel like I’m “the one” but for whatever reason, I’m flattered and thankful. You were a stern man but never exposed that to me directly. I saw it, but you never personally pointed at me. Maybe it’s because I spent so much time at your house when I was an infant due to my father’s tours of duty, or maybe you saw yourself in me when we spent time together when I was a small boy.

You took me fishing and hunting (I didn’t like it but I liked being with you), we milked cows and fed the hogs, bailed hay and you let me drive the tractor. I remember when I was seven when you came to me and said “It’s about time you learned how to drive.” You weren’t talking about the tractor though. I was excited and a bit afraid. You had in mind the truck. The truck was built in the 1940’s, the seats were pretty tore up, there where springs sticking out, and the shift stick was about 3 feet long. I didn’t realize what I was getting into until I climbed into the driver’s seat, and you started rattling off “First gear, second gear, don’t shift to third until the red needle gets here, and don’t forget to push in the clutch and hold it while you shift.”

I was completely intimidated, but I was up to the challenge – this would make me a little closer to being a grown-up.

I pushed in the clutch and put it in first gear only to have the truck lurched forward because I took my foot off the clutch two fast. You were annoyed and I started to see that stern ugly guy peek out at me as the gears were grinding and the truck was jerking down the road. Your tone raised and you started barking orders. My anxiety shot through the roof. I finally said I couldn’t do it.

”Too many pedals! A clutch, a break, the gas, and a cumbersome stick shift! I also have to watch the road and the red needle on the dash. You should give the kid a break!”

You said I could do it. “Just let me shift.” through trial and error we were able to work out a system where you’d say “Clutch!” and I’d push in the pedal. You shifted. Then you’d say “Gas!” and I gave it some gas and in no time when we were rolling down the road quite smoothly.

That was one of the single most important events of my childhood. I could drive every time after that I would visit and I got better and better until I could do it on my own. Thank you.

The last time we saw each other was in 1988 when I came in on a train from North Carolina.

We talked about old stories and you played the harmonica. I felt like I was seven all over again. It was a great visit.

On occasion, we talked on the phone off and on for years until you became deathly ill. Right after my daughter was born, I called and asked my mother to hold the phone to your ear. You were unconscious so I don’t know if you heard what I said, but I think you did. I said I was sorry for your illness and that I hadn’t visited after I got married and I was crushed that you’d never meet Lexie.

About eleven years ago I flew my family out for Gramma’s 80th birthday party. During that visit, I took the kids up to your headstone and told them about all the fun we used to have and the stories you would tell. I took a few pictures and to this day I have a rubbing of your headstone in my office.

Your wife survived throat cancer at 85, and she just turned 90.

You died when Lexie was 5 days old. She’s driving now. I also have a son that is twelve. I’m sad you never met either of them, I have told them about you over the years.

From time to time, I sing myself a song you shared with me when I was a child, “Don’t you call me sweetheart I don’t love you anymore, since I caught you necking with the boy next door, I will find another that I’ll like quite well, don’t you call me sweetheart you can go to (you’d always pause because you didn’t like to swear, rather than say hell), and stay put.”

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Hey Gramps,

Your progeny has grown huge. I think I have over 30 first cousins and even they have children.

Your wife is still with us (sorry you can’t see her yet!) and doing great @ 93 years old. I talk to her maybe about every six weeks or so.

I do have a great story to share with you may have never heard from her directly. You’re in it , and it’s awesome:

I love and miss you dearly Gramps.

Dave

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