JOY in Grandpa Bobs. My GranBob died several years ago. Amelias was riding in the car with me. When I picked him up, in addition to his suitcase, he also had a box, wrapped in twine, filled with hand crafted doll furniture. I was headed to the neighboring metropolis to pick up a campus visitor. Grandpa Bob was flying out on the flight ahead of the one our guest was coming in on. My GranBob was the grandpa in my life for as long as I could remember. My dads dad died when I was quite little and the only thing Ali really remember about him is that we got hermit crabs to take in the car on what would be our last trip to see him before he passes a way. My moms dad lived in Michigan, and aside from my years in grad school, he was not as present in my life as GranBob. A set of unusual circumstances led to an ordinary Bob becoming a GranBob, but from that time forward I knew nothing else. As we pulled out of there driveway and headed down the road toward the highway, the Grandpa Bob in my car was surveying the field across from our turn on to the highway. A new development in place of an existing wheat field. The Grandpa Bob is like my GranBob was: a champion for sustainability - in developments, in cities, in life. As we headed down the highway he asked if I had seen an email he sent out earlier in the week. I had, but only skimmed it. It was about energy credits for solar panel installations. He was disappointed more people didnt show to take advantage. As a small child, I remember my GranBob drilling in several sites on his property for an environmentally sustainable water source from which he water his immense garden and lawn. I learned about aquifers almost before I could spell the word. Quickly our conversation turned to military deployments. The three books I illustrated this past summer were stashed in the console. We talked about the challenges for one who serves their country but subscribes to a pacifist ideology. Im pretty sure my GranBob served in one or more wars, but I learned more about peace from him than anyone else I can remember. Often around a campfire in the middle of the Sierras. Most of it I didnt understand at the time, but later when I did the ideas were not foreign to me. We talked about campus and its politics, about troubled students and his upcoming field trips, about his granddaughter and her expensive taste in doll furniture. The box in the back of my rig held a handcrafted dining room table, with chairs, for Amelias American doll collection. The very image reminded me of afternoons spent Ina sawdust filled workshop watch my GranBob craft a new table leg on his lathe. By the time I was old enough to do much of anything, I knew how to safely operate most power tools. Amelia would be spending the week with her a Grandpa Bob as he was flying in to give a Geology talk. My GranBob gave a geology talk nearly every summer of my youth as he dragged a group along the trails once walked by John Muir. I learned to identify granite (as in we need a good slab of granite upon which to place the cook stove), lava outcrops, and sandstone. When this Grandpa Bob talks about basalt columns and sediment, I have a childhood memory upon which to build. As we turn off one highway unto the other, Grandpa Bob remarks that I am a good conversationalist. My GranBob had to put up with hours of constant chatter and questions and stories and ideas and more questions. This Grandpa Bob can perhaps thank my GranBob for helping to cultivate a mind full of creative energy that never shies away from jumping into an interesting conversation. If I had closed my eyes while driving I might have been able to imagine riding with my GranBob instead of Amelias - a life well lived, evidenced by the tanned, leathery hands that were now paging through the childrens books from the console. As a young child my GranBob never grew weary of reading my stories, telling me new ones about Roscoe the Racoon, and nurturing a writers soul encased in the body of a young child. I think about the doll furniture, which I also learned had matching, doll sized formal and informal table clothes and napkins hand crafted for them as well. What magic within Amelia will be unleashed by her Grandpa Bobs visit? What JOY will she recount thirty plus years from now? When we are young, I think we miss on the true impact that grandparents play in our lives, and it isnt until much later that we hear their voices echo through our being. JOY in a morning spent remembering my GranBob through Amelias. JOY in Grandpa Bobs.
Posted on: Mon, 28 Oct 2013 05:35:51 +0000
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