One of the earliest memories I have of my Grandpa, is of he and I laying on a blanket out in the front yard, on the grass near the fish pond that is no longer there. I must have been about 2-years-old, and he with his right hand, since his left hand was missing all the fingers to the last knuckle, would point out shapes in the clouds; rabbit, elephant, face ~ and then ask to be sure I could see it.
Have I mentioned that I adored this man? In his flannel plaid shirts and khaki pants and suspenders, smelling of Swisher Sweets, of which I always got the 'ring', and would wear it until it literally fell apart. He also smoked a corncob pipe on occasion, I loved nestling into that flannel covered shoulder and breathing in the smell, which to this day brings feelings of warmth and safety and love.
I spent weekends with my Grandparents often, beginning at a very young age, when most children will not be separated from their parents for anyone or anything. When my parents would come to pick me up, I would run go hide, and my Grandpa would instantly become my 'partner in crime', declaring, ''Well, I don't know where she is, she was here just a minute ago''.
Beyond grateful and blessed to have come to this family of which this lovely man was patriarch, steel wrapped in velvet.
In 1902 he rode a bicycle from Kansas to New Mexico to put in his homestead claim. Having done so, then sold the bicycle and bought a round trip train ticket to return to Kansas for my Grandmother, and they come to New Mexico to begin their lives together as a married couple. She was all of 16 and he 21.
The beauty of these family stories is the history they bring for my sons, for whom I mainly share them, that they would have them after I am gone.
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