Writing Motivation: A Letter to my Grandpa
Ever since I was able to form my own sentences, stories, poems, and letters my Grandpa Bill became my biggest supporter, motivator, and fan. He would always love reading pieces I wrote. He would smile that straight-line smile, his small eyes would twinkle, and he would make a little sound “hmm” after reading them. His pride in me exuded outward and landed straight within my heart. He made me feel smart, loved, talented, creative and helped give me this sense that I was going to soar in life. So I found it fitting, and long overdue that I wrote something dedicated to him as he spent his last days in the ICU.
My mom read this letter at his bedside on my behalf, and I hope when he heard my rendition of growing up on the farm that it created the same sense of warmth and love that he had given me over and over and over again. Here’s to you My Sweet Papa Bill. I am finally doing it. I am using my gift of words and it’s an honor to dedicate a part of my new journey to you.
Soaring Men and a Navy Uniform
I am running down a gradual hill of green, freshly cut grass. On my right is a field and raspberry bushes, and on my left is a long gravel driveway. I am running and looking up as I hear laughter behind me. I am looking up at a soaring green man with a tiny parachute in hopes that when he lands I can scoop him up and bring him back to you. He lands and I excitedly grab the small plastic green man with the white parachute speckled with black ash. The black ash evidence that the parachute was catapulted into the air after you let me light the firework.
I turn and head back to show you. I pass the fields that surround my best childhood memories, and keep safe my most precious loved ones. I smell the freshly cut grass that you mowed while I got to sit on your lap. As I grew older, you even let me cut the grass by myself. You see, you always had a way of loving me like a child but allowing me to grow and giving me the confidence to chase independence. Now on my right, and past the gravel driveway, is grandma’s big garden. I spent hours in that garden picking vegetables and weeds. String beans in a big bowl would end up on a TV tray in the living room, where Grandma would hand me a small paring knife and allow me to cut the ends off and drop the freshly cut beans into a bucket of cold water. Many would think I would feel proud that Grandma was allowing me to help, but what I was most proud of is that I got to use my Grandpa’s TV tray.
As I sat cutting those string beans, next to me was an old hutch, with book shelves and sliding wood doors on the bottom. Inside those sliding doors was a world of treasures that peaked my curiosity and later shaped my love for many things. Old albums such as Donny Osmond and a VCR tape of “Pretty Woman” are things you loved, that in turn, I then loved and still do. Something tickles the top of my feet. I look down and Peanut wants to play, or Grandma thinks he maybe wants outside. I leave the warm sentiment of the TV tray and make the short walk to the front screen door. I walk past the kitchen table that holds all of my fondest childhood memories. Sunday game nights surrounded this table with Grandma’s homemade cookies and a meat and cheese tray Grandpa always seemed to make sure made an appearance. An old card shuffler sits on the end and bent and worn cards splayed on the table. A diet coke sits on the edge, sticky from my little fingers. If I could only for a moment be the dealer again, and my Grandpa be to my right-hand side patiently waiting for me to shuffle and slowly pass out the cards. Just one of many moments in which Grandpa showed me patience and allowed me to be independent and his “big girl”.
Peanut and I make our way outside and walk down the old concrete stairs, hands holding the metal railing where my brother once decided he would test if licking metal in negative temperatures really does cause your tongue to stick. In front of the house sits Grandpa’s white pick-up with red wood lining the top of the back-hatch. The truck that Grandpa would let me ride shot-gun, driving down dirt roads, listening to old cassettes of 50’s and 60’s music. The truck is filled with the smell of bubblegum, a pack of light pink EXTRA gum tucked in its perfect spot below the radio.
I follow Peanut across the gravel driveway and we go behind the small, white garage that holds Grandpa’s many items meant for tinkering, and the riding mower tucked in its corner sprinkled with the remnants of that freshly cut grass. We reach the spot where plastic chairs sit lined up and ready for the 4th of July fireworks display. I sit on Grandpa’s lap, looking down at the tattoo of a now faded pin-up girl he got when serving in the Navy. I was always so interested and proud of Grandpa being in the Navy. He was and is a hero and idol dressed in white and navy. From a little girl to a teenager I would excitedly bring home green plastic bags of dehydrated food and patches he received during his time of service. Into teenage years, I would proudly wear an old Navy uniform jacket. Grandpa must have seen the excitement and felt my amplified admiration for him, as into adulthood he gifted me his valued uniform. I am still trying to decide how I want to best display the greatest gift I have received. A gift that reflects the love, admiration, appreciation, and friendship my Grandpa and I have. But it seems that now, being older than I was, I don’t want to take it out of the plastic for that plastic will help persevere it for my forever.
Sitting on Grandpa’s lap, we decide together the order of the fireworks. He decides it’s okay if I light the little ones. I grab the small, olive green cardboard box with an army man displayed on the top. Grandpa hands me the barbecue lighter and tells me “Be careful, you’re too beautiful to get hurt” and gives me a wet peck on the cheek. I feel important, a gift that Grandpa gives me without hesitation and continuously. To be loved is to feel like the most important person, and that is what Grandpa has perfected. I carefully light the short fuse and hear a POP. I take off down that grassy hill to catch the soaring man.
As life moved beyond those fields, the raspberries bushes, farm house, garden, and white garage I watched the white pick-up take my Grandparents to another place where more memories would be made. A piece of my heart traveled with them, and remains with them forever. And even though the distance between us multiplied, Grandpa still has a way of making me feel like the most important person and I still see the same handsome man dressed in a Navy uniform who encourages me to chase after soaring men.
Your little tasha
May you treasure and hold tight these words in the same place you have kept your love for me for all of these years.
