Sandy and I, along with my cousin, sister, and brother-in-law, spent the last weekend in February and the first week of March cleaning out my stepfather's house. He passed in November 2022, leaving behind a family who loves him and a house packed with keepsakes of his life. Before we started working at the house we took part in a very well attended celebration of his life. There I learned just how much his family loves him.
As we discovered, sifted, and sorted the remnants of his life I couldn't help but think about what all this stuff he'd amassed really meant. His interests, with their attendant accoutrements, were wide and varied. It felt like he would latch onto a passion, or hobby, only to lose interest and turn to something else. There's a good chance that I'm wrong. The only internal life that isn't a mystery is our own.
I can only aspire to be as eloquent as Robin Wall Kimmerer who wrote "Maybe there is no such thing as time; there are only moments, each with its own story."
We found that, in his spare time, Grant's stories were those of a Miner/Rockhound, a Motorcyclist, a Hunter, a Watchmaker, a Collector (of National Geographic, Reader's Digest, bank receipts, tax paperwork, and more), a Leather Worker, a Mechanic, an Electrician, a Hypnotist, a Conspiracy Theorist, a Believer in spirituality, a proud Father, a happy Grandpa, an indulgent Uncle, a Brother, and last but certainly not least a Gardener. He, like everyone, was truly a multitude.
The sorted remnants of Grant's life affected the sentiments of each of us in relation to what story line we happened to be in. Sandy and I found the greatest gift Grant unintentionally left behind for us purely by accident. Sandy found some Altoid boxes with seeds we think Grant took from his own garden.
Sandy showed them to me and, as I marveled at the beautiful beans, my brother-in-law told us that he'd found a box of seeds under the stairs.
These vacuum packed bundles of life are all heirloom non-hybrid seeds. Seeds that have been sitting dormant on shelves in Grant's basement for (maybe) decades. All they've been waiting for is the opportunity to partake of the symbiotic magical miracle that sunshine, soil, seeds, and water perform to create life. This truly IS a box of life and I'm so excited to find a piece of ground to settle on. A piece of ground to be tilled, fortified by compost, and sown with the seeds that Grant unknowingly gifted me and my family. The bounty of this humble box will sustain me, my family, and my future new friends and neighbors.
Grant will be there when we make fresh garden salads from whatever is in season. It'll be because of him that we'll slice into a beefsteak tomato. Sweet Corn from these seeds will taste sweeter because Grant stored them. Our future neighbors will also benefit. As Robin Wall Kimmerer writes with regard to harvesting "Never waste what you have taken. Share. Give thanks for what you have been given. Give a gift, in reciprocity for what you have taken."
All this stuff about gardening and the symbiotic magic of soil, sun and water acting on seeds is the frame of reference I want to remember Grant in. I've written, before, about how he planted ideas in my mind and heart. Ideas that, when I was in the right season of my life, were harvestable and truly made a difference in who I am at this point of my story.
Grant, I'm positive, understood that life is a gift. We found a constant reminder taped to a cupboard door in his kitchen. These five words are the Reader's Digest (which Grant loved) version of "Never waste what you have taken. Share. Give thanks for what you have been given. Give a gift, in reciprocity for what you have taken." These small and powerful words are the only constants in all the stories that were Grant. They're the one thing that we could always, always, expect from him. Is there any wonder why his family loves him so much?







