Memories of Grandpa

Here I am with my daughter, my mom, my grandpa, and a lamp with deer feet on it. This picture marks the end of a 3-yr era during which I didn't see my little old Grandpa...our paths just never really crossed. As a matter of fact, this was only the second time Sara had even met Grandpa, which is too bad because he's a pillar of a man. So many great memories, all manifest by sounds, smells and sights.

Sounds: I'm not sure how many in my blogdience are St. George goers, but those who are know there is a very specific sound in that city after dark. The bugs in the trees must be the most stressed out little critters in the world because they are constantly screaming. They're probably angry that they don't have air conditioning. After our little 6 hour car ride down south to Grandpa's house we'd open the sliding van door and immediately know we'd gone to the right place because of the bug squeals. Add to that the sound of the water gushing down the gutters, and the hot breeze, and you've got an evening at Grandpa's house.

Smells: Sometime in that 5 year span between boy and man, I went on a week-long pine nut picking trip with my Grandpa and my Uncle Tom's family. I've never been much of a camper (sadly, Uncle Tom did not have a cabin) but I remember having a lot of fun learning how to hunt pine cones. You see, my grandpa was a champion pine nutter. Holy cow, I remember him spending hours talking to my cousin Dwayne and I all about the techniques of getting nuts out of pine cones, and the crazy adventures he'd had out in the woods. Early in the year he'd go out and get the green pine cones directly out of the trees and bring them home to his driveway by the truckload, where he'd let them dry until the nuts would come out with just a little cone raking. Whether it was out in the woods, or sitting on the back porch, the smell of my Grandpa was pine sap. Plus, thanks to the menu during the nut hunting trip, the smell of pork 'n' beans also brings the grandpa memories rushing back.

Sights: Granpa's living room was unmistakable. On the wall was the taxidermied head of some deer-like creature, and a plaque given to him by Dixie College for his years of service as a janitor at the school's gym. The brown carpet, the end tables that were so thick they couldn't have weighed less than half a ton each, and the green tassley couch pillows. He'd always be there watching World War II shows on TV. Man, he spent years fighting during World War II. I've spent a lot of time trying to picture my grandpa as a scout in the Phillipines crawling through the jungle ahead of everyone else trying to stay alive. Then he got shot right next to his heart. That scar is a sight I'll never forget. He spent years in the military, years as a diesel mechanic, years running the dairy farm, years as a loving father and husband. My mom and her 4 brothers look so much like him and have all measured up to the man and woman that raised them. Can we young kids ever measure up? Now the sight of Grandpa is a 17-year widower living in the frozen Logan tundra, with tube socks keeping his ears warm.

He is a true American hero. I'm at such an advantage because some of his warm St. George blood is flowing through my veins. Wow, I've actually got a double dose of St. George inside of me. We went to visit my other Granpa last summer as well, I'm sure you'll hear plenty about that in the near cyber future.