I spoke last and was able to share a little from my blog post I had written just a few weeks earlier. I actually had to change what I was sharing the night before. As my sister and I sat down to review on Friday night, we found we had written a lot of the same memories, some of them almost word for word the same.
Here is a combination of what I originally wrote, and what I shared. . . it's a little long.
Grandpa had his chair. No one else sat in his chair. Well, no one was supposed to. But it was such a fun game for Papa to drag you out by your ankles and drop you on the floor on the other side of the room. Most of the time Rachel and I would tag team it so that while Grandpa was hanging one of us upside down, the other would scramble into the chair and wait for his surprised expression. This would go on for what felt like hours until he would catch both of us and we would snuggle into his lap. Grandpa power napped in his chair but always claimed he was “just checking his eyelids for holes.” As kids we often spent the night at Grandma and Grandpa's house. J.Thomas was Grandpa's shadow, wanting to be everywhere Grandpa was, even sleeping on the floor of their bedroom. That was until Grandpa started snoring and J.Thomas came running out crying that there was a bear in their room.
Every morning Grandpa got up and went to work. Mind you, Grandpa had retired when I was 3, but he would suit up in his coveralls (the worn out set with paint on them, not the set that he wore out to parties and church) and head out to the shop. The shop was this giant, and I mean giant, sheet metal garage. I never really knew what he did out there. Boy stuff. My brother could probably tell you all about it. Grandpa would come in for lunch, often a picnic on the lawn with his Granddaughters, and then go back out. In the afternoon he would come in, sit in his chair, and check his eye lids for more holes. After dinner we would all play cards while eating homemade ice cream – Grandpa's favorite. Grandpa even made a motor to turn his hand-crank ice cream maker.
Many of my memories of my grandpa are surrounding food. When I think of Grandpa, I think of frozen Laura Scudder potato chips and Tru-Blue Lemon cookies. I always thought my grandpa ate weird things. He drank buttermilk. He ate onions like apples. He ate the lemon in his water at restaurants. He drank Delaware Punch (which I have yet to see in a store anywhere.)
Grandpa had a sweet-tooth. Every year we would give Grandma and Grandpa stockings for Christmas; a big tradition in our family. Grandma would usually get a new pair of earrings but Grandpa's stocking was always filled with candy. He would break into his loot right there, even if we had just finished breakfast. If it had peanuts and caramel, Grandpa was all over it. If we didn't give Grandpa candy, he would steal ours. One time I left my Pez dispenser on top of the piano, left the room, came back and a whole row of Pez had been eaten. I didn't even get a chance to put it in the dispenser. Chocolates from Easter baskets disappeared. He was sneaky. Occasionally we shared; usually after Grandpa asked “Whatcha got there?” I always gave Grandpa my popcorn flavored Jelly Bellies, blech!
Grandpa did everything for his grand kids, and he did it as only a handyman could. He built our play house, with a door, windows, and a kitchen counter. He hung a the tire swing in his back yard. And not just any 'ol tire, he took a large tractor like tire, anchored in in three places, and hung it. All four of us girls would climb on and Grandpa would push us. But the most fun was camping. Grandma and Grandpa took that motor home all over the country, but the best trips were when they took us to the beach without Mom and Dad. Sometimes it was all four of us girls, sometimes just Rachel and I. Grandpa drove and I got to sit up front while Rachel and Grandma played cards. We would get sausage biscuits from McDonalds for breakfast and then peruse the secondhand book store. We walked the beach. Made a campfires and and ate Jiffypop while playing cards and eating licorice. Then Grandpa would eat the leftover popcorn for breakfast with milk and a spoon.
I'm sad that my children don't have the opportunity to know my Grandpa the way I did. But in my eyes they have the next best thing, Grandpa's son, otherwise known as Pepa. And now Pepa will get share the stories Grandpa told us. Stories of coming over the Grapevine and putting snow on the car to cool it down. Of having to do boot camp three times. Candy bars falling from the sky with parachutes. And of buying 2 burgers and a Delaware punch for two bits. And my children will ask, as I did, “What's two-bits?” And my Daddy will tell stories about how his Daddy would sleep walk and stare into the pitch black night claiming that people were stealing his parachute. And I will tell them of when Grandpa taught me to drive on the farm; but told me not to drive the way he did because he used his left foot for the brake. And maybe sometime, I will drive by that old farm and I will tell them about the “shop,” and how Grandpa let us drive the tractor on his lap. I will tell my children about the yard stick paddle that hung in the hallway but was never used. And the picture that used to hang in the office of Grandpa with the model planes. And we will show them the gas can tricycle that Grandpa made for his son, and then repainted in John Deere green for J.Thomas.
The word legacy has been used a lot this past week. By definition a legacy is a gift handed down. For me, this is a foundation on which our family has been built. Grandpa and Grandma raised their children with a foundation rooted in Christ, and in turn, my parents raised us to love God. Now I, with my husband, get to raise our family with the same foundation that Grandpa had with his children; love God, cherish your spouse, and embrace family.
