Grandpa's Sunshine

This week I have been thinking of influences in my life, past and present. My heritage, my family, my ancestors... they have more influence on who I am and what I do today than I really give credit for. 

In particular, I was thinking of my Grandpa Johnson. He died April 18, 1988... 24 years ago! So last night I was thinking of him and this story I wrote about him. I sent this story to my dad as a Christmas present several years ago. I was told that he couldn't even read through it all the way because of his tears... he handed it to my sister to finish... she began to cry and couldn't read it... so she handed to my brother who was too little to remember much of my Grandpa. It is a rather sentimental memory, but full of the love and longing for family that I had surrounding me as I grew up. I hope you enjoy it.

Grandpa’s Sunshine

Grandpa Johnson was very tall, with a tan, weathered face that had smile lines around the eyes. He always wore overalls, rubber chore boots and a cap from the seed company or dairy co-op. His long forehead, which seemed even longer because he was mostly bald, had a permanent hat line across the middle. Grandpa and Dad farmed together on our few acres of paradise.

            We lived one hayfield away from Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Every day my sisters and I crossed the field, walked through Grandpa’s garage, across his garden and on to the dairy barn where Dad was milking cows. We’d get our buckets, fill them with warm milk and head out to feed the calves. Often Grandpa would be out there, helping Dad by feeding hay or irrigating fields. Grandpa always had advice to give us, whether it was how to get our calves to eat better or why we should go put on a jacket.

            My favorite times were when my older sister, Rachael, and I would prance over to Grandma and Grandpa’s on a spring morning, then proudly sing songs for them in their kitchen. We especially liked singing “Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree,” because we could point right out the kitchen window to where our apricot tree was blooming in the garden. Grandpa would always smile his wrinkly smile, and his blue eyes seemed to laugh.

            Our only concern was when Grandpa had a headache. Some days we’d come noisily walking in, only to be hushed by Grandma. Grandpa would be sitting in a kitchen chair, his eyes closed and his head resting against the wall. Every noise seemed to bring him more pain, and since it was hard to be quiet, we soon went home.

            By the time I was 11 Grandpa seldom came out on the farm. As hard as it was to “retire” after farming all his life, his poor health forced him to give up the heavy work. On some mornings, he’d be watering the garden, leaning on his shovel as he watched the water flow down the ditch. After it rained, he’d dig little trenches so Dad wouldn’t have to drive the tractor through big puddles. But he could no longer be Dad’s partner in working the farm and caring for the cows.

            Then the news came that Grandpa needed surgery. Everyone was worried, but he soon came home from the hospital and we all hoped for the best.

            That evening I had a violin concert. My parents had to take me to an elementary school in a neighboring town to perform with a beginning youth orchestra. I struggled during the performance, but I had done my best. As we were driving home I begged for a milk shake as a reward.

            “No,” Dad said. When I complained, Mom told me to stop it and cast a worried look at Dad. Only then did I notice that Dad knew something was wrong. We sped home down the freeway.

            As we walked in the front door, all my sisters and brothers jumped up from where they’d been waiting at the kitchen table. The story came in jumbled pieces: Grandma had called. Grandpa had fallen in the bathroom. Dad wasn’t home, so she called Uncle Dale. An ambulance had come.

            Dad had barely heard the end of the tale before he was out the door. A sick feeling came over me. If I hadn’t had this concert, Dad would have been able to help. And I had been complaining …. I sat with my sisters, feeling a pain of guilt inside me, waiting until my parents returned.

            It was dark when Mom led us over to Grandma’s house, telling us on the way that Grandpa had died. As I entered the dark back hallway, Dad reached out and hugged me tight. He was crying — I’d never seen him cry before. And he said he loved me, which was something I’d rarely heard spoken out loud. The whole family of aunts, uncles and cousins gathered in the living room and a prayer was offered — a plea for comfort. I remember the sobs of grief, and wondered how the room could be lit so brightly and still seem so dark.

            After Grandpa’s funeral, the first one I’d ever attended, we climbed in our van and drove slowly out to the cemetery. It was April, and it was appropriately raining. As a crowd of over 60 relatives gathered around the gravesite, I felt a little lost, and still very sorry for ever having a violin concert.

            Uncle Dale and Uncle Philip sang a duet, their tenor voices blending smoothly, then cracking, as the music drifted across the damp lawn. Then it was time to pray and dedicate the gravesite. We all bowed our heads and closed our eyes. The prayer began. Suddenly a warmth spread over me, and I had to peek. The rainclouds had parted just enough to bathe this corner of the cemetery in a bright yellow beam of sunshine. The sunshine had the same brightness of Grandpa’s smile. It was only then that I accepted the reassurances that had been given. Yes, everything would be fine. Grandpa was sending his comfort to us. From now on he would be able to watch us and help us, whether we were doing chores on the farm or traveling far down life’s paths.

           

            Ten years later, my first son was born on Grandpa’s birthday. As I held his small body and examined his perfect face, I noticed his eyes and forehead bore the resemblance of my father and his father, Grandpa Johnson.

            Later reflection led me to believe that a circle had been completed, wherein grief was replaced by joy, and death replaced by birth. As a child, I had known Grandpa knew how to make things grow. As an adult and a new mother, I realized he’d planted seeds inside me that would only sprout years later. And he’d taught me how I, too, could begin sowing seeds. Thanks to Grandpa, there will always be a little bit of spring sunshine to help those seeds grow.