It's time

My Gramps and his brother, Jim. Gramps is in his signature straw hat.

It is time I finally write about this. I've been wanting to and dreading it at the same time. I want to let my feelings out, but don't want to open myself up - all at the same time.

My beloved grandpa died. There it is. In type. The words I never wanted to put down.

My beautiful sister wrote such a loving tribute on her blog about this dear man, I didn't feel I could say anything nearly so eloquent, or apt. She said it all.

My grandpa was the best man I knew. Or know, because I feel him with me very strongly, even now that he is gone. I can't imagine the world without him - so I am refusing to do so. I know he is not physically with us, but he is with us every day. In spirit. In our hearts. In every little thing we do, even when it seems that those things couldn't possibly have anything to do with him - they do.

He was the touchstone for a family. The strong, silent type you read about in books. The hardworking man who just gets things done - and knows how to do everything. The thought that presented itself most strongly the past couple of weeks was that the one person in the family who could make you feel the best of yourself, who could help you out of any jam, could love you like there was no tomorrow, even when you were being a colossal jerk - was gone. He could make you feel safe, secure, loved. He looked at your foibles with an eye that said, "well, this is nothing new, history has seen this type of mess-up before, and it will again, I trust you can pull yourself back together and make things right."

As I have written before, I am terrified to drive (or be driven) in snow and ice. My grandparents live in Baker City. It is a terrifying two hour drive to reach their home in winter. I was sick going over. We had to put chains on our little car. We saw people spun out on the roadway. I was as scared as I've ever been. To the point that it was getting in the way of what was really important. The one man I trusted to get me over those mountain passes, to make me feel safe, was gone. I could not rely on his expertise anymore. I felt like I was coming undone.

We got through the funeral. God knows how. That was the saddest day I have ever lived. I'm not sure I even have processed that part yet. To see my precious Grams so sad. To see my uncles so torn up. And hearing my mom cry is a sound I have always feared. I wanted to wrap her in my arms and tell her it was going to be fine, except I don't know that it will be. My heart broke several times that day. It seemed like it was not enough. I wanted to climb onto the roof of that funeral home and scream, "Hey world, you are losing what makes you great, you are sending away the greatest example of good. You've broken a thread to this hardworking, insanely curious, intellectual, strong, caring person - you have made a huge mistake. You do not know what you've done." But you can't do that. I couldn't do that. I wanted the world to know about my gramps. And there is no way to broadcast that magnitude of feeling to the world. Although I am beginning to understand that there are many quiet ways to do so. I can work harder, study more. I can use the gifts passed down from him to be a better person. I can be like him. I can get up and work my tail off and not complain. If I see a need, I can do something about it. If I catch myself feeling sorry for my situation, I can make changes. As gramps said, "You get up in the morning and you put your pants on, one leg at a time, just like everyone. You don't have to be a Rockefeller, you just be the best you can be."

We left the day after the funeral. The roads were terrible. They closed the road from La Grande to Pendleton. A group of us waited and worried. My mom had studded tires put on her little car. We finally decided to make a break for it, and go the back way over the mountains. Six cars of Grandpa's kids and grandkids caravanned over. My heart nearly came out of my chest. The drive from Baker to La Grande was icy. I have no idea how cars were staying on the road. Semi trucks were crawling. I thought of all the times my gramps had driven over the roads in a semi. In the dark, in the ice, by himself. I wanted to weep. My husband drove slowly. We were a line of descendants in cars. My aunt and uncle stayed right behind us, not leaving us even for a moment. They knew how scared we were. It was a gift. We made it to La Grande and turned to go up over the mountain. The group decided that we should lead, since we had the least amount of gear on our car. They said, "if anything happens we can pull you out." My heart warmed. We went up over the mountain. It was snowing heavily. The roads were packed with snow and rutted from snowplows. My husband was heroic. I do not know how he kept our little car on the road, but he did. We came down out of the mountains. My husband said, "I can't let us all go without pulling over." So he pulled over and a line of 6 cars stops behind us. We piled out of the cars, triumphant. Yelling, "how'd you do?" and "Are you ok?" I'm sure the people passing by wondered what 6 cars and a multitude of worn-out, but grinning people were doing stopped and hugging one another by the roadside. My uncle proclaimed my husband a good leader. Someone said something about not being a close family. And my uncle yelled, "maybe not, but we're going to be from here on out." It was the best moment of the past two weeks. It would have made my grandpa proud. He would have let out his high pitched laugh. I could almost hear it in the air as the wind whistled and cars rushed past. A hard and frightening journey - made in honor of a man who had made so many of the same kind. He might have been alone when he did it, but his kids and grandkids had each other.

Which, I think, is the most important thing. It is the only thing that he would want. It is the only thing that means anything in this crazy world.

We have each other.