About two weeks ago, my Grandpa passed away. For rather obvious reasons, I've been thinking a lot about him lately. While there are a lot of memories I've been thinking of, one in particular keeps pulling me back.
When I was around 9, I decided I wanted to bike the 7 and some miles to my grandparents farm. The only way there was via the gravel road that went through, up, down, around and over some rather dramatic rolling hills. At the time, the road had also just gotten a fresh layer of gravel, making an already sketchy bike ride even more so.
I didn't tell anyone I was going either. No phone call heads up to the grandparents, no "see ya later" note to the parents. Nothing. There was just me, my bike, and the determined grit of a 9 year old with a goal.
When I finally rattled up the driveway, I was met by a very confused Grannie. I called my mom, who was also very confused. As far as she knew, I was still in the yard somewhere. Grandpa was out in the farm yard somewhere, but he must have come back not long after I’d left. I was nearly home again when he caught up with me. (As it turns out, the farm truck was a lot faster than my bike. Whodda thunk.) He rolled down the window, smiled, and simply said, “So, need a lift?”
He didn't scold me. Just laughed a good, hearty laugh, and loaded my sweaty and sunburnt self into the truck and my dusty pink bike into the back. Talked about how when he was my age, he was driving cows for 10-12 miles (which was basically the farmer equivalent of "back in my day I walked 20 miles up a hill in a blizzard to school.")
He drove me back home and stayed for a cup of tea. Partially because Grandpa was never one to pass up a visit and a cup of tea, but mostly to defuse my (understandably) angry parents from dusting my tail feathers. By the time he left, I only got a brief "don't do that again" lecture. He was always good at that, defusing situations. Always seemed to know what the right words were for any situation.
It's funny what our brains choose to remember. I don't remember much of what he said, but I remember he laughed. I remember how the cab smelled like dust, grease, and wheat. How there was always straw stuck to the seat and how it always managed to poke when you sat down.
Most of all, I remember how proud he was I made it all the way to the farm. How proud he was of his granddaughter.
There's a lot of ways I'll remember my Grandpa. A lot of little moments I'll miss, memories I'll cherish, stories I'll carry, and lessons I'll hold close. But more than anything, I want to remember the pride in his eyes, the laugh in his voice, and the love he had for his determined, dusty granddaughter.
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