I
felt someone nudging my shoulder and the calm, familiar sound of my grandpa’s
voice, “We’re almost there, wake up.” The car ride felt like an eternity, but
sight of trees completely surrounding us awakened a sense of giddy anticipation
within me. I began to fidget like any twelve year old that had been buckled
into my grandpa’s Buick for the past three hours. The tan interior of the car
became insignificant as the East Texas flora and fauna engulfed my attention.
The sunlight played through gaps in the forest canopy as we drove ever further
from civilization.
I
felt the car slow and leisurely turn left into the long driveway I had grown so
familiar with over the years. It was summer and my parents thought it would be
a good idea for me to spend a couple days with my grandparents at their lake
house near Lake Quitman. I wasn’t as thrilled about it as they thought I
should’ve been, but I eventually gave in to their demands. We rolled past giant
pine trees that seemed to scrape the clouds. The fruit on the apple and peach
trees my grandparents had taken care of over the past twenty years had just
begun to ripen. I stretched my arm out the window reaching for an apple, only
to miss grasping the green orb by a mere couple of inches. Squirrels dashed
back up their trees and birds flew from their nests as we passed the time worn
tool shed, and came to a stop in front of the garage.
The
lake house was a small, one story home that was built almost fifty years ago.
The side paneling was a burnt orange wood, and the blackened roof was always
covered with leaves and branches from the overhanging pine trees. The garage
was overflowing with fishing rods, lawn chairs, and an assorted collection of
outdoor toys my grandparents had bought for my sister and me throughout our childhood.
My grandma asked me to help carry in some of the groceries for the weekend as
my grandpa walked around the back of the house to turn the water on. The humongous
watermelon I was carrying almost slipped from my grasp as I stumbled into the
den. Every corner of the room possessed a unique piece of furniture, and a
worn, burgundy rug adorned the entryway.
The center of the den was occupied by an old faded, blue couch and an
antiquated television that we rarely ever used. I could hardly tear my eyes away
from the pair of giant windows and sliding glass doors that always made me feel
as if I was walking around in a large fishbowl.
I
lugged the giant melon past the cast iron fireplace and up two short steps to
the kitchen. My body heaved it up onto the counter for my grandma to deal with
and collapsed onto the couch. I leaned my head back and was momentarily
mesmerized by a fan that never seemed like it was turning fast enough to do its
job. My eyes closed and I listened to the sound of the lake washing against the
bank only a short distance from the front door. The lazy sounds of summer
melted any desire to move.
Birds
chirping in the distance broke my trance and drew me through the sliding glass
doors. Sunlight danced off the lake as I walked towards the old wooden bench at
the end of the dock. I sat down on the gray, weatherworn cushion as a fish
jumped from the water only a few feet from the dock. I listened to the cadenced
knocking of my grandpa’s boat against the side of the dock, as the waves effortlessly
pushed it aside on their journey towards the shore. A rhythmic creaking behind
me averted my gaze to the sight of my grandpa carrying a pair of fishing poles
and a bucket of freshly dug earth. He deftly climbed down into the boat and
threw me a life jacket.
We
sped off across the lake, cutting through the water as if it were a large clear
mirror of soft glass. The fiery light from the setting sun skipped across the
waves as the revving of the boat’s motor and the wind rushing past us deafened
all other sounds. The boat slowed as my grandpa cut the motor. We drifted into
a cove hidden to the naked eye by a maze of oddly placed trees and reeds. The
roots of nearby oaks grew out of the water and snaked along the riverbank
creating a perfect habitat for unsuspecting fish. I untangled the mess of rope
sitting at my feet and dropped a rusty anchor into the murky depths. Gramps smiled at me and asked, “Want a
worm? “ I nodded as he reached into the bucket and pulled out a squirming night
crawler. I skewered the unfortunate bait and cast out next to the bank. My
grandpa did the same, and initiated an affable conversation concerning school, sports,
and life in general.
The
sun continued to dip below the trees, and soon the metric chirping of cicadas
and crickets was all that permeated the still air of night. The faded yellow
moon shone dimly through the trees, and our discussion had long since faded
into meditative thought. I looked up to find his head resting on his chest,
quietly snoring the night away. My conscience briefly considered waking him,
but decided against it and instead soaked in the sounds of silence. I smiled in
silent laughter as my mind drifted towards memories of our past. The relationship my grandpa and I shared
was unique within my family. We were both quiet. We never needed to be the
center of attention, and often preferred to sit in the background as opposed to
commanding the focus of an entire room. Talking with him was always a pleasant
respite from the chaos that resulted from living with two teenage sisters and
troubled parents. He loved talking
about “the olden days”. It always seemed that every conversation we shared
eventually digressed to a story about his life during the Great Depression, the
time he spent in the army reserves, or some rant about how technology was going
to be the end of civilization. We talked a lot about how life is different and
all that has changed in the past seventy years. Common topics included the
evolution of technology, the growth of television, cellular phones, fast food,
music, and women. He was always convinced that, while the world looks
incredibly different, the same basic motifs of life hold true: “Hard work is the only path to success. The
key to happiness is to find something you are truly passionate about, and
pursuing whatever that is with everything you are. Treat people right and, generally, they will return the
favor.” I smiled to myself thinking of all the corny phrases and jokes he
constantly made and insisted were hilarious.
A
particularly loud snore broke the silence and my grandpa rocked the boat as he
coughed himself awake. He was startled by the darkness and realized he had lost
track of time.
“Holy
cow, we need to get back! Your grandma is probably worried sick about us.” He
carefully navigated the boat out of the natural cage of low hanging trees and
reeds, and then sped off into the darkness towards home.
Eight
years later, I was sitting alone in my typical college dorm room when I
received the phone call from my dad informing me of my grandpa’s passing. I
knew my life had changed, but I could not for the life of me tell how. I vividly
remember hanging up on him, throwing my phone across the room, and then staring
at a blank TV screen for the better part of the next two hours. It was one of
those surreal moments when life begins to feel all too real. Death was not a
concept I had dealt with thus far in my life, and for a long time I was stuck in
between emotions, unsure of how to react. I knew I would never talk with him
again, but at the same time I was never overcome with grief. I’ve decided that
this is because of the all memories we shared while he was alive. Sure, he
isn’t physically with us anymore, but nothing can take away all the times we
spent fishing at the lake house or those not-so-pointless conversations.
Grieving at an appropriate time was healthy, but it is useless to spend time
missing someone when they’ve been with you all along and will continue to be
ever-present in your mind.
This realization was a significant “coming of age”
moment in my life through which I experienced a large amount of personal
growth. I believe that we are products of our environments and ultimately made
up of our memories. Often times we ignore them, and these memories are not
profound until we take the time to reflect on them. My grandpa’s death taught
me to celebrate life, and not to dwell on the parts that are out of our
control. Death is inevitable and uncontrollable, and wasting time worrying
about it is the antithesis of life. Our focus should never be on what we have
lost or regret, but rather on celebrating the moments we have, or had, with
those around us and those we care about.
