my dear grandpa

Dea made a comment on my piece about piano lessons.

Dea is my 3d amazing daughter. She reminds me of a story, and she may well not know the whole story. This is for you Dea!

My father was killed in North Idaho. Idaho is a long state, north to south. Grandpa and Grandma lived in South Idaho near where I live now.

Mom somehow was able to find a phone and called neighbors of Grandpa and Grandma, who relayed the message. I was 4, I don’t actually remember, but I’ll bet it was something like that.

Grandpa did not own a car, but he quickly packed a small case and rode his bicycle to the highway, with my aunt, who was about 11 on the back of the bicycle. Aunt rode the bicycle back home a couple miles away, and grandpa began to hitch hike to north idaho.

Going through Oregon and Washington was the fastest way, but it was close to 450 miles. Up the center of Idaho was shorter, but there was a LOT less traffic. So grandpa began hitch hiking on old US 30 toward my mom, baby sister and I.

Meanwhile, my dad’s brother came into town from California. It is unlikely, I think, that he knew of his brother’s death when he left California, I rather think he came up for some other reason.

When he found out what happened, he put Grandma and my aunt in the car (I vaguely remember something about my Dad's mother going too) and headed for where they hoped to find Grandpa. They found him about 30 miles from home. They drove on to be with my mother during that terrible time.

But the thing I remember about this story, and it is largely a story I have been told by people who are not around any longer, is that grandpa did not sit down and figure how to make the trip. He didn’t call Greyhound. He just got his bicycle and made it to the highway, stuck out his thumb, as a matter of personal faith and devotion to his daughter, who needed him.

Thank you Grandpa for a wonderful example of doing what has to be done for those you love.

You will always be big in my memory.

griffy, grandson #7

goldie

When we lived in Texas in the 80’s we met Goldie.

Her husband had died not too long before we met her. He left her with a big double cab Chevy pickup that was larger than she wanted to drive, so often she would ask to be taken to church, or shopping occasionally.

She had the most wonderful disposition. She smiled a lot and was contagiously happy. I never asked her how old she was, but I guessed she was somewhere near 70.

Before we left Texas, Goldie moved to be close to a grand child in Arkansas, and we moved back to the north west. We have not seen her since.

But, every year, right after Thanksgiving, we get this card and hand written note from Goldie.

She is not doing well this year. But she does not really complain. She stated very matter of factly, that she has an open sore on her leg that requires a home health nurse to change the dressing on.

She talks about her grandchildren that we have never met, but that Goldie loves very much.

This time, her handwriting was particularly scratchy and uneven. She always had such wonderful penmanship.

I’ll write back a letter to her of course, and I won’t ask her age, but she has to be in her 90’s now, and as good a friend as ever. Each year we wonder if this is the last time we hear from her, this year is no exception.

We love you Goldie, thanks for being an inspiration to us!

end of season

Thursday I emptied the teardrop trailer.

For as small as it is, I am always amazed at how much it holds. Bedding, clothes, thick mattress, food all came inside the house. I left the cooking gear, I’ll empty those cabinets later, if I need to..

The tear goes into the shop in early spring for a bit of remodel and change making. When someone asks when a project like this will be finished, the only really honest answer is: maybe never. I’ll always be making changes and modifications

The log book says we slept in her 30 nights this season. Half of that was with the trailer parked at a daughter’s house. That leaves 15 nights camping, not any where enough.

That does not seem like much but that is a weekend a month for the entire season, which is pretty good actually.

Still, my first new years resolution (this is December, so I can) will be to camp more next season.

Miriam enjoyed our travels, I hope next year is no exception.

ketchikan

jim again

I have been to see Jim a few times since we returned.

He is not stronger, nor a lot weaker. That is the good news. This morning he was as cranky as I have ever seen him.

“Dot,” (Dot is Jim’s wife) “If you loved me you would shoot me like an old dog.”

“I am not going to jail for you.”

“If I was going to shoot you, I’d have done it a long time ago,” she chuckled.

“Dave,” he said, “I just want to die.’

Today was his 67th birthday as well, and his family had planned a small party for him Saturday afternoon, and Jim was sure too many people would come and he would be tired, and he was unhappy about the whole thing.

“Jim,” I said “There are a lot of people who love you and want to wish you a happy birthday.” That seemed to calm him down.

Tonight when I went over, with a fresh baked loaf of bread and a jar of still warm home made apple sauce, he was in a better mood.

He won’t go easy nor soon. He has misery to go yet, which makes me very sad.

But, he didn't die while I was gone. That would have been awful. Dot told him he had to hang on till I got back. Now she tells him that he has to be there for their 47th wedding anniversary in early January.

I wish him the best, but a life of misery is not the best, durn it all.

winter marigolds

jessica - self portrait

longer?

If I held
Her tighter
Could I keep
Her longer?

If I wrapped
My gorilla arms
Around her tiny frame
Could I hold her right here?
Where she is?

When I was
A tiny sick baby
My dear mother
Would press me to her
Bosom for nourishment

Then hold me
In her rocking chair
Through the night
So I could sleep
And stay alive
Another day.
She was twenty
Young years.

She went away
Twenty five years ago
I still miss her
Every day.......

If I held my
Sweetheart as
Tight as I can, could
I keep her alive
Longer
Longer?

lodge walkway

little blue and tiny 1

home. . .

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home

Google tells me that line is 150 years old. Wow.


Still it is so true. We’ve been on the road much of the last month, visiting each of our daughters families. It has been good.

Still, coming into town last night, this little town where I was born and have lived much of my life, it was home. Even Leo the italian greyhound raised his head and started looking around. He knows too.

This house was designed and built for a family with teen age daughters, now those daughters have teen children of their own, so we have a little extra space. Miriam likes to remind me that by any measure it is still a small house. None of my daughters houses is large, but for the most part those with the large families have the larger homes. Our SF daughter could use a bit more space, but in her market that is only a concept. Interestingly, my sister who lives alone owns our parents house, which is the largest in this sampling.

I turned off the switch for the water heater before we left, so it was a while after we got home before we could take that hot shower, but even that was worth it.

So, having driven 2500 miles in the last month, we are ready to stay home and play like real home bodies. I just put a pot of beans on to slow cook. I pulled a loaf of frozen home made bread from the freezer, to go with the beans. Before weekend I’ll make a batch of good bread.

None of that is terribly newsy, or even amusing, or perhaps even of interest, but I have to feel so blessed to have a place I can call home, and a wonderful wife to share it with. Each day when I say grace I thank God for this wonderful woman who is my wife. I know she is wonderful, and God for sure knows, but I want her to hear it out loud -- again, and again.

Yep, there is no place like home.

strolling family

pier 39, san francisco

Yesterday we went to one of those famous tourist places.

I was taught by some one, to call them tourist traps, and that is not always a bad name. I do try to avoid them, even going camping in national parks during the off season.

But this was Pier 39 in San-Francisco. I was here as a boy, but SF in 1949 was totally different (and smaller) than it is now. We went to the wharfs and saw people actually fishing, and catching fish. My memory is the fishiness of the whole place.

This time Pier 39 was a place to buy clothes, jewelry, nick nacks, food and food and food and food. Didn’t see any MacDonalds, but I may have missed that one. There sure was no lack of places to eat.

We had a light lunch at a outdoor cafe that featured bird scavengers. We dropped a couple french fries and a minute later we looked down and they were gone. They were faster than a good server, and more stealthy too.

This time I took my camera, with fresh charged batteries, and took a bunch of pictures.

What struck me as much as anything was the mixing pot SF has become. As we walked along we became part of a lot of conversations, and fewer were in english than you might think.

There was one very elegant family I noticed. Mother, two daughters and a husband, tall handsome women with features we would expect to see in old time San Francisco. But they were beautiful and very self assured, elegant is a good word to use again.

There were a few women in head scarves, but mostly the image was that everyone was wearing pretty much the same costume, while they talked all over the place.

It was also a big enough crowd (by no means overflow) but you wanted to keep track of each other. My two grandsons kept an eye on Miriam, as I did photographs.

We had a great time the 6 of us.

food mix?

alcatraz island from pier 39 sf

thanksgiving rose

piano continued

Since I brought up my musician daughters, I’ll continue,

We have two daughters who are 10 ½ months apart, meaning that for all intents and purposes, they were twins. They were good friends, but very different. The older sister was careful and cautious, the younger adventurous and eager.

So we purposely didn’t start them to school at the same time, and we suggested different instruments. When she was the right age, we began Lora, our 2nd daughter on Organ.

The two sisters played together a lot during those years, and I was (and am) their biggest fan. I even enjoyed hearing them practice. Some tunes are rivited in my mind.

Today Lora lives with her husband and 4 children on an 11 acre farm that is on an indian reservation. She and her family attend a little church on the reservation.

And that is what I want to talk about here.

Lora is an RN, works nights delivering babies. From what I hear, she is very good at what she does. Being a nurse makes you very organized and Lora is that, most of the rest of our family are artists, not known for their organizational skils, but Lora is the organized one.

Early on she began giving piano lessons to her children. Their skill level now is pretty much in line with their age. Alan, the oldest at 17 now plays the piano for their church service. He wants to play the organ, and will I am sure.

The other three (another boy and two girls) also take lessons from mom and are doing well. Once in a while, in their living room, we are treated to a concert from all of them. Grandpa smiles and enjoys.

I never actually figured what it cost for their music education, but here it is going into another generation. My grandfather had a degree in piano performance, graduating in 1909.

Granddad would be proud of his great great grandkids!