Hi Grandpa John

On my walk this morning I heard the soulful cry of a mourning dove. My thoughts, as they always do when I hear that sound, immediately drifted to my Grandpa, long since deceased.

I wasn’t close to my grandparents on either my mom or my dad’s side of the family; although I wanted desperately to be...and always will. Part of that lies in the fact that they were quite on in years by the time my little sister and I came along; part of that is because we are of Scandinavian heritage. Scandinavians – or at least the ones I grew up around – are people of few words. And even fewer emotions. Which explains a lot about me.

But for some strange reason whenever I hear the cry of a mourning dove, Grandpa saunters into my head. And I feel comforted. Hi Grandpa John. I think it’s because I remember hearing doves conversing around my Grandpa and Grandma’s house. Grandpa was a farmer. When he and Grandma “moved to town” as farmers do when they retire, I would stay there for a few hours each day after kindergarten while my Mom finished her shift at the hospital. (Yes, I was in kindergarten at age 4.)

When I smell a marigold, Grandpa is there. Hi Grandpa John. When he had to leave the country and the earth that he loved so much he planted a huge garden in their backyard in town. Grandma fell ill w/ serious heart disease not long after they moved to town. But I do remember her being healthy enough to chastise me once for putting sugar (or was it salt?) on the tomato Grandpa had plucked fresh from the garden and presented on a plate for me. I didn’t eat a tomato again until well into my adulthood. And even now, they aren’t a favorite fruit of mine. Interesting the damage one can unknowingly do to an impressionable 4 year old…

Which is probably why when I hear a mourning dove or smell a marigold I think of Grandpa. I really have no fond memories of Grandma. The marigolds? Grandpa used to plant them around the parameter of his magnificent garden to keep the bugs from eating his vegetables.

Sounds. Smells. That is what is left of my Grandpa. O, and the rocking chair I bought at auction when my parents moved from their home into a retirement community a few years ago. It was the one thing I wanted. And I was willing to pay any price. It was a bargain at $50. It holds no value investment-wise. But it is the one thing I remember about Grandpa visually. I can see him sitting there reading his newspaper (I don’t think they had a television) as I played with the one toy they had in their home – a gyroscope. Which, when I think about it, was an exceptionally challenging toy for a 4 year old to be playing with.

My Grandpa was a quiet man. A gentle man. In the truest sense of the word. A devout man. A religious man. A hard-working man. An honest man. A loving man. A beautiful man. I only wish I could have known him more deeply. But, in a way, maybe I do. In retrospect, my mother is the epitome of her father, just in the female form.

I can’t wait to smell the marigolds this summer…