**************************
Picking
Blackberries with Grandaddy
I remember picking blackberies with
Grandaddy in summer. It was always early in the day, with the morning
dew still wet on the leaves, but you could feel the heat already there,
waiting like a hungry tiger. Walking to where the best brambles grew,
in the farthest pasture, we could hear crickets, grasshoppers, and the
grating trill of cicadas (I called them locusts then). Tiny green
grasshoppers would fly buzzing from around our feet (mine were bare and
already grubby) as I hopped, trying to land my feet in Grandad's
footsteps. He'd notice what I was doing and shorten his stride to make
it a little easier, but he never made it easy. Grandad believed
anything worth doing was worth working for. It's why we picked berries
in the fathest pasture.
Picking blackberries. Those berries
were the sizeof my thumb, Warm, sweet and damp with dew. I ate almost
as many as I dropped in mybucket, which is why I think I got the little
one.:) I always went home with my face and hands stained blue so dark
it was black.... and puffed up with pride from helping!
Those brambles didn't give up their
treasures willingly, though. Getting to the berries meant getting TO
them- the cows had already eaten the ones on the outside. We had to
reach deep into the bramble, braving thorns like cats claws, and not
always coming away unscathed. I always went home with my arms covered
in a spider-s-web netweork of scratches, and Grandad's admonition
ringing in my ears: "Guess you'll be more careful next time" Grandad
never wasted sympathy on silliness. By the time we filled our buckets
and headed home, the morning's promise of heat to come had been
fulfilled, and the cattle had retreated to the pond to rest and chew
their cud. The crickets were silent, but the locusts seemed unnaturally
loud as if to make up for everything else.
We could hear the frogs at the pond,
and occasionally the ducks or geese squabbling. Old Joe (my dog) would
run ahead of us, hoping to flush some quail to chase. He'd chase
anything that was moving. Ducks, geese, chickens, cows or cats. He
wasn't too choosey.
The sky was usually a clear, pure blue,
but there were times when we raced the rain-and lost! We'd arrive home
soaked to the skin and laughing, to be scolded roundly bu my
grandmother and HER mother, who would promptly bundle me offfor a hot
bath, so I wouldn't take a chill.
We always knew when a storm was coming,
even the locusts got quiet! Then we could hear the frogs singing in
anticipation and we knew it was time to head for home. I think picking
blackberries with Grandad will always be one of the strongest, most
poignant memories from my childhood, because they come from a time when
i was still able to take a child's simple joy in the workd around her.
These memories and others like them remain my reminder that there is
good and beauty in the world, if only we will look for it.
**********
More about Grandad
I don't remember the "first" time words
had a profound impact on me. There were many "first" times.
Walking with my grandfather as he
pointed out things my eyes had missed. An unfurling fern, the
footprints of a mama 'coon and her babies- the vivid image he painted
of the babies' first trip to the stream. Here they learned to overturn
rocks, there they peeled the bark off a rotting log, and over THERE,
you could tell by the torn up mud, one had his first encounter with a
crawdad. Scuttlemarks in the thick black mud marked the crawdad's
victory as it returned to the stream, uneaten.
As we continued, Grandad painted other
pictures with his words, showing me where a youg deer had scraped
velvet off his antlers, pointing out an owl's roost and challenging me
to spot the owl himself, deep in the shadows of an old cedar tree.
My grandfather's words have always had
am impact on me. His stories of life growing up in the Depression made
me appreciate what I had.
Helping in the garden, the soil rich
and dark in my hands, and the powerful aroma of green growing things
around me, my knees damp from the earth beneath them, and Grandad
explaining why we had to plant each vegetable differently.
Grandad looking at me sadly after he
caught me swinging on the grapevine. Grandad's words, as he asked me if
I hurt when I was bleeding. Telling me that I had made the grapevine
bleed. Asking me if I thought it might hurt. Making a small child see,
through simple and powerful words, that hurting the vine was wrong even
if it couldn't cry like I could. That image remains strong to this day.
Grandad telling the stories out of the
comics-sometimes making up stories to go with the pictures, sometimes
reading.
My grandmother taught me to love books,
and reading, but it was my grandfather who taught me, first, to love
words.
**********
In Loving Memory
Grandaddy passed this morning at 11:45
AM. The machines were the only thing keeping him alive. He never
regainsed consciousness. An era has ended.
Grandaddy has always been my rock. He
taught me everything I know that has made me a good and decent person.
He even influenced me toward being a Pagan, though he never knew this.
I read my first words perched on his
knees, took my first steps clutching his big, calloused farmer's
hands... he taught me to bait my first hook, helped me catch my first
fish... I accomplished a lot of "firsts", thanks to my grandfather.
The song by Holly Dunn called Daddy's
Hands will ever and always have special meaning to me, because it
describes him so well.
Goodbye, Grandaddy. I love you.
**********
As Promised: A
Memorial
I don’t remember my first steps- who
does? But I’m told I took some of them holding Grandad’s hands. I do
remember his hands. Big, square, calloused farmer’s hands. His hands
could handle a hammer, or comfort a scared little girl. Those hands
built a dock, a chicken coop, and taught me to drive a riding mower. I
recall those big, hard hands resting so gently atop mine on the wheel,
helping me steer. I remember the solidity of him behind me in the seat,
the strength and promise of his presence. I knew then that he would
always be there to guide me- and until now, he always has been.
I recall Grandad’s hands over mine on
the cane pole as he helped me land my first fish. He showed me how to
bait my first hook, and helped me when the worm proved too slippery for
my tiny hands. He kept me from getting bored waiting for that first
bite by helping me see the life around us. He showed me blackbird nests
in the cattails, raccoon prints in the mud, and tadpoles in the shallow
water. Grandaddy always helped me see the small things I would have
missed without him, like a dragonfly perched in the reeds, or a
hummingbird sipping nectar. He always seemed to have time for me.
I remember creeping to the front porch
at night when I couldn’t sleep, and being discovered there by
Grandaddy- he’d barely wake me as he lifted me and carried me to bed.
If I was still awake, we’d sit and watch the stars together until I
konked out. He always encouraged me to listen to the spring peepers,
and to this day the sound of those little frogs puts me right to sleep.
There are so many things I remember
about my grandfather- so many little things, that meant so much to me,
but anyone else would think are silly. My first time on a pony (and how
I got thrown)- so many other firsts. Grandaddy taught me to use my
imagination. I remember a big box he brought home for me to play in. He
told me it could be anything I wanted it to be, if I would only
imagine. So, thanks to Grandad, that box became a spaceship, a
submarine, a pirate ship. It was my magic carpet and carried me to so
many places in my mind.
I remember a Sunday tradition, when I
was small. Me, crawling into Grandaddy’s lap clutching the Sunday
funnies for him to read to me- and the first time he had me read them
to him! I felt so grown up when I read Prince Valiant all by my
ownself.
Grandaddy always tried to teach me to
believe in myself, to make my own decisions and to learn as much as I
could before making any decision. To have all the facts, whenever
possible. I hope, that in recent years I’ve made him proud, as I’ve
tried to grow and learn to be someone he’d approve.
There are other things I recall as
well- summers on Tybee Island, for instance. I recall being rousted out
of bed at 10 AM to go swimming because the tide happened to be right. I
remember wearing Grandaddy’s flipflops because I “couldn’t find” mine…
and just because I wanted to. I remember volleyball games with
makeshift everything- a rope for a net and an old beat-up ball. I
remember building sandcastles, and always the year’s first sunburn.
Grandaddy never seemed to cook like the rest of us mere mortals, but he
sure understood how much that stuff hurt!
I remember quiet breakfasts together
before he drove me to school, and on weekends when we two were up
before everyone else. A real treat, though, was being taken to Boyd’s
for breakfast with Grandaddy and his friends. Of course, to me, any
outing with Grandaddy was special.
I don’t think I ever told him- he
didn’t invite such things- but I respected Grandaddy’s wisdom, and his
sure understanding of people. He always knew so much more than I, no
matter what book learning he may have had, or not had. I loved him,
respected him, and I will miss the sure and certain knowledge of his
presence in this world. In many ways, Grandaddy was my anchor.
Goodbye, Grandaddy. I love you.
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