Updated: Oct 29, 2020
I remember my grandpa. His name was Robert. Everyone called him Bob. My grandma called him Robert Leroy on special occasions. Mostly when he tracked mud in the house or when he tickled her.
I remember him working. He loved work. He would mow our lawn by lamplight after he had worked 18 hours. And then he would mow our neighbors lawn. Always.
He would plant the most delicious garden and then ask the neighbors if he could plant one in their yards too. He prepped and planted and harvested the gardens for them – leaving them big baskets full of produce – he just wanted to do the work.
I remember him coming home from a long day at work and sitting on a bench that he had welded, and watching my sister and I put on ‘Broadway’ performances in the backyard that he had grown, under spotlights that he had carefully hung for us. I can still hear the junebugs, feel the thick sticky air of the midwest and see my grandpa clapping as we pranced in Goodwill ballgowns and sang “Old Blue.”
I remember him showing up two times when my heart was newly broken. Once after losing a baby and once after losing a marriage. He drove through the night together with my grandma. He would tinker with my car and change its oil while my body slept off the surgery or while my heart tried to beat again.
I remember him dying shortly after I met Shawn. He would really love Shawn.
And then I remember my grandma crying the day Shawn and I were married – saying Grandpa was there too