It has been hard to know what to say about my grandfather, and I am not sure why. He was a great man, one of the most important influences on my life. I have wondered if it’s just not all too much in the past year to deal with, and so perhaps that is why I feel somewhat flat. I guess it has been a hard few years, with failing health, difficult diagnoses, and death in the family.
There are too many memories of Papa. His place in California was the one stable place in my wandering life. It was always home. But I suppose that really, he was always home. That is, he made it a welcoming place, in every way. People commented that he was always making a pot of coffee for anyone who might come by. But it went deeper, to his patience and wisdom. Those things really make you feel at home.
I had the eulogy at his service, and one of our cousins said, “You spoke more words in your 5 minute speech than Papa would have in a day!” Ha ha! How true. He spoke little, but always to great effect. You listened. You craved what he might say.
The best times were early in the morning. We’d be up before sunrise for chores on the ranch. When we were done, we’d come back to the house and he’d make me hot chocolate and peanut butter toast.
I think that the thing that will stick with me the most is a story about trees. I guess I get my love of trees from him. There aren’t many trees in that part of California, and many there were planted by men. When Papa came to visit us in Mississippi, he took back some Southern Live Oak acorns and planted them on his ranch. They thrived in the constant sun. They grew a little too quickly and were a bit leggy, so they needed to be staked for a few years. One of the trees had two leaders, and we took some pruning tape and tied them together, making figure eights up the tree.
Papa said, “One day, long after we’re gone, people will wonder, what the hell happened to this tree?” Because, of course, no one plants a tree for himself. You go into it knowing your grandkids will get the benefit of it.
Papa used to ask me fairly often if I remembered doing that with him. Of course I did. I wondered why he always asked me that and then it hit me: he wanted to know if I would remember him. Some part of him was going to live on in that tree. Turns out, we did not separate the branches enough, and so they grew back together, looking like one trunk. But if you look at one of the oaks on his property, you can see, up the trunk, a spiral scar.
I don’t need a tree to remind me of Papa. It’s a great memory, no doubt. But there is a lot more of him that lives on in me.
And then, I think a conversation my mom had with him a few months ago is lifting me up. He commented on how a lot of people, especially in California, can’t handle sickness and death. They think they’ll never die in the land of sun and looking good. But he told my mom he had been ready to die since he was 6. His faith was in Jesus. When those who belong to the Lord die, and leave this earth, how can you mourn? There is human grief, of course. But there is also great joy.
While I was out there, I got to baptize my uncle, Tim. It was awesome. We have always connected over music (we went to see Dylan and Petty; he could never get me into Poco and Little Feat… I was too much of a metal head). As were in his car, listening to Emmylou Harris’ “Pieces of the Sky,” he started talking about wanting to be baptized, and I suggested a pastor he knew in town. But he said he wanted me to do it. I was blown away and honored beyond belief. It’s hard to be a witness in your family; they know you too well, and they see you too raw sometimes. But it just goes to show, baptism is God’s work, not ours!
We did it California style-- in a hot tub!!
You have to be ready in season and out of season. God is good.
