Today is our grandfather's birthday. He was born on April 6, 1889, the year before Idaho became a state on July 3rd. He lived in Idaho, but it was only a mile from Wyoming, where he attended school and church. Most of his life was very involved in Wyoming because of the unique nature of the geography of the little valley in which we were all born. The valley curved in the north part, so that a small section of the community where he lived his life was actually across the border in the next state. The surveyors made straight lines, but the mountains and the rivers didn't.
I have been reflecting on his life this weekend, because of his birthday, and because I found a letter on Saturday that he'd written to my parents. It was to inform them of my grandparents' safe arrival back in Phoenix, Arizona, in early December, 1968. Grandpa and Grandma spent their winters as snow birds, in the warm climate of the desert, leaving our valley in September. But that year's migration had been tragically interrupted by the death of their youngest son, and they had come back to their little hometown in Wyo/Idaho for his funeral.
[My uncle was an Air Force pilot who was training to be an astronaut, and his plane crashed during a super-sonic flight. It gets worse: it was one week, to the day, from his wedding. He was 38, my grandfather would have been 79 and Grandma 77 years old. It was the end of Grandma, as she died just four years later after several years of being bed ridden.]
In the letter from Grandpa, he describes the huge pile of sympathy cards that awaited in their home when they returned, the watchful care from their friends in Arizona who picked them up from the airport, and brought over meals. He thanked my dad again for getting them cheese to bring back to their home in Mesa. Then, he closed with a P.S. that pointed out how gracious it was for my parents to give up their own "private bed" for my grandparents to use while they were in town for the services.
"I doubt if I would consider doing that if the King and Queen of England came to our house. Thanks a million."
He had written it with his signature blue fountain pen, in immaculate script penmanship. He wrote letters constantly. I'm blessed to have found this particular one.
In class today, I mentioned that it was my grandfather's birthday. A few students smiled and asked me to wish him a Happy Birthday. I pointed out that he passed away many years ago. Then, I showed them in a math problem, what his age would have been if he were still alive.
2015-1889 = 126
They were astounded! How could someone's grandpa be born in the 1800's??!! Well, if you are a grandma yourself, it can happen, I pointed out.
Later, I realized that my students, who are nine and ten, could actually live until the year 2089. They'd be in their 80's, but some of them could easily live that long. I am the bridge between these generations that span two centuries. I vividly remember my grandpa. He was a lively, active man when I was a child living at home with my family. My students are etched into my brain. It's easy to remember many of them from the last 19 years of teaching school. It's hard to realize that some of my students are married and parents now. The kids in my classroom today cannot even imagine 1889. They can't imagine 2089 either. I wonder how much different their lives will be then from how they are now? We can't possibly predict. No one predicted all the home computers and computing devices we use today, even when I was a child.
Also, my grandfather's life was not significantly different from my childhood. He was a dairy farmer, who put up hay for the winter. He attended church, raised a family in a small town, read lots of books, and enjoyed giving speeches. I was raised on a dairy farm, hauled hay all summer. I attended church, lived with my family in a small town, read lots of books, and enjoyed giving speeches. Once, in high school, I was with a group of students who presented the messages at church one Sunday. We were in the congregation where my grandparents had spent their entire lives, where my mother grew up. It was winter, so Grandma and Grandpa were in Arizona. After the meeting, a stream of people came to tell me how wonderful it was to see that I had inherited my grandfather's skill in public speaking.
Of course, we had a few strategic differences in our lives: his farming career was done with horses; we had tractors. He milked by hand into buckets; we had electric milkers. I went to church in a car, and for many years, he went in a buggy or sleigh. My grandma used to say, "I went to my wedding in a horse-drawn buggy, and now my son flies jet airplanes!" She marveled at the changes that occurred in the 20th century.
Well, we cannot predict the future, but we can appreciate the past and our heritage. Today, I'm appreciating my grandpa (mother's father) and all the work he did to help my parents to fix up their farm buildings and their house. We were put to work every Saturday in the summer because they came to visit, eat dinner with us, and get my grandma's hair fixed by my mom. He built plank fences, which we painted. He added parts to our house, and to our barn. He and his brother built a hay shed and cow shed (these were enormous buildings....don't be fooled by the word "shed.") We children carried and fetched and hammered and toted, and tried to stay out of the way of these two hard working men who were in their early 70's.
I know that my younger brothers and sisters only knew the old, feeble man who lived, by turn, with his three daughters. By then, his wife had passed, he couldn't be trusted to drive anymore, and he really wasn't able to live on his own. It must have been a trial to have lost his independence. He was a man who was accustomed to being in charge, and making his own way. He was a doer, and when his body declined to the point that he spent his last few years in a nursing home, it was a difficult time for him. He passed away at age 91, just shy of turning 92. He'd had to revise his funeral plans repeatedly, because his friends kept dying before he did.
So, today, appreciate our lineage. Know that we come from a line of hard-workers. Know that he loved learning (he only attended school until 8th grade) and read books all of his life. He got up early to study and write letters to friends and family. He was an avid gardener and a good farmer. His carpentry skills were unparalleled, and he could work you into the ground until he was an old, old man. I'm proud to be his granddaughter.
He simply loved living in a place where he could enjoy blooming plants in the winter.
My grandparents and my uncle, the pilot. I don't know what year this was, probably four or five before he was killed.
