May 25, 2014
Grazing the water for a split second, the stone’s brief
impact created a ripple. Defying gravity, the stone flew back into the air,
only to come down and repeat the steps, every time a little less high and
traveling a little less far before finally dipping under the surface, settling to
the bottom. Some stones skip exceptionally well, the splashes and ripples
retelling the brief encounters with the water in ever increasing arcs. I had
walked down to the Black River, taking a break from the Memorial Day party at
my grandparent’s house. The ripples reminded me of my visit with my grandpa a
week earlier.
My grandpa Earl lives in an assisted living home in Owen and
I hadn’t visited in a while. I wheeled him out to the Grand Hall, (otherwise
known as the cafeteria) for a more relaxed setting for conversation. I just
spent a week at Mondeaux Flowage for an Ice Age Trail event and knew my dad had
spent many a weekend there with his dad. My grandpa, in slow, determined
speech, reminisced that they never had much luck fishing at Mondeaux, until
they got a campsite in a backwater lagoon and cast from shore. Fish was on the
menu that weekend. He forgets people or names some days; this was a good day.
The conversation shifted around to strawberries, not letting
my Uncle Kurt grill for the Memorial Day party and working the ore boats in the
Great Lakes. My grandpa had been retired for 20 years after driving milk truck
for nearly 40 years. He worked the ore boats before that. The ore boats hauled
coal around, moving from one lake to the next, wherever it was needed. I have
trouble remembering what happened last week and he was talking about events
from when he was my age.
These were the stories of his life, radiating out from the
creation, growing the audience ever larger with each retelling.
Back along the Black River, I sorted through rocks,
searching for the best stone to skip. The rocks all came in different sizes and
shapes, somewhat sorted by the river. Every rock tells a different story, how
it was made, where it came from, how it got there. Floodwaters carry in new
rocks, and moving others downstream. The most perfect skippers, like a good
story, leave many marks whether it’s ripples in the water or laughter from a
humorous story.
September 7, 2014
My grandpa passed away this morning. Today is also five years to
the day his sister Grace, my great aunt, passed away. Now that he’s gone, I
regret not knowing more about his life. In my 31 years, I never heard him
repeat a story. My grandparents were world travelers, visiting Australia,
Greece, Turkey, Egypt and many other destinations. They would entertain the
family at Christmas recounting a trip they just returned from or recalling a
family road trip from years past.
Growing up, we’d spend a week or two at my grandparent’s
farm, helping run their pick-your-own strawberry patch. In it’s heyday, the
patch covered 10 acres and the line of cars waiting for the patch to open in
the morning would stretch as far as my young eyes could see. We’d help park
cars and carry ice cream pails brimming with bright red strawberries from the
field to the checkout. I usually ate more strawberries than I picked to save
for later. To this day, I can’t stand paying for strawberries, thinking that
they were always free from my grandparent’s. My grandpa would direct pickers to
the rows that were ready for picking, check customers out with their fresh
bounties, work on the tractor in the parts of the patch that will be picked
later and answer any questions that arose. This was his retirement.
A fond memory on my grandpa came in high school. We had a
sub for English and as the sub was going through attendance, he stopped at my
name.
“Was your grandpa Earl?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“He was the toughest athlete I ever played against. He was
hardnosed and beat me every time we played in high school.”
I was beaming.
My grandpa was a good man and will be missed, but he will
live on in stories and with family, rippling out for eternity.
