I was 10 years old when my grandfather passed away.
I remember the night.
I remember how I felt. And not really knowing what the feeling was.
I was reminded of him twice this evening. Randomly.
Both times when I looked at my watch.
iWatch has this amazing face feature - for those of you who do not know, you can select photos to display as the face of your watch, a new photo pops up every time you look at the screen.
The last two times that I have looked at my watch, it was a picture of my grandfather Joe & I.
I am his namesake, as much they could make a name fit. As the last born grandchild, I was also born a girl. So that’s where Jodi came from. AS I mentioned in a previous blog past, it was almost Jolene. (Joe & Helen combined)
But I think that they should’ve just broke the barriers of the societal name norms and called me Joseph anyway. Despite my gender. I mean nowadays you can name your kids after food or planets or zodiac signs or inanimate objects - so naming a granddaughter after her grandfather does not seem as absurd in comparison. I think it’s cute. Takes on an entire new perspective of a strong female name.
In both photos I’m under the age of 3. Weird that these photos were displayed back to back, that Never happens. SO I know he was guiding my heart and thoughts to be here.
I loved that man. Still love him. Loved him so much that I can still recall such vivid memories of him.
Memories of being out in the back garden with him, barefooted, pickly grass under my feet. He’s in his white undershirt and dress pants, or perhaps they were called ‘slacks’ at that time. He’d point to the leaves that looked ripe, and I’d pull the radishes out of the dirt. I was so proud to be his little helper. He’d spray them down with the garden hose, and wipe off the dirt and we’d bite into them as if they were tiny apples. It was my favourite vegetable to pull from his garden.
I’d pull carrots and green onions.. we’d even eat the green onions too. And I’d pick tomatoes from the vines, but I never ate them. I didn’t like tomatoes as a kid. Not too keen on them now, except if they’re fresh from the garden in the summer. Picking tomatoes wasn’t as much fun either. Root vegetables always had a surprise about them, like a Jack-In-The-Box or a wrapped gift. Then… well, that’s about where I’d lose interest in the gardening. I’d run off and do cart wheels across the yard and then run off into the house with my grandmother.
Later after he’d worked outside for what seemed like forever, he’d come back inside.
He’d be wearing his ‘garden work’ smell, which I can still recall & recognize to this day.
And after he was freshly cleaned and smelling of Old Spice, he’d sit me on his lap & we’d sing…
“You Are My Sunshine, My Only Sunshine, You make me happy when skies are grey. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. So please, don’t take my Sunshine Away.”
The day he died, he was working hard bottling his own home made wine.
THIRTEEN Years later, we were toasting to him & drinking that very same wine at my wedding.
Whoa. Thirteen. Such a significant number in my life for so many reasons… but this one I just connected.
I need to sit with this.
jj
P.S. I still love radishes.
Comments