Eight years ago, on June 4, 2001, we were in Newport, R.I., visiting my aunt after spending some time in Vermont with my grandparents. I went out to do some laundry and get some groceries. When I returned, Ray told me that my Papa had died that morning. Since then, my birthday has always been bittersweet, a day of remembrance as well as celebration. Papa loved life, from his big breakfasts to the little birds who visited his feeders and brought such joy. He snowmobiled and sailed, invented and refurbished, read and learned up to the end. He taught me to observe, to wait and watch, to find Saturn through his telescope or the newborn calf in the field. As I weeded this morning, I remembered the time he spent in his own garden and the bounty that he received from the rich Vermont soil. He showed my father how to be a loving husband and father. He spoiled me, taking me to the general store and picking out some trinket whenever we went to the post office for the mail. My fondest memory was of his amazement and pride when my best friend and I made the trip from Michigan to Vermont after college to spend two weeks in New England. He and I poured over maps, finding the shortest route from Randolph Center to the Old Man in the Mtns. in NH and looking for the points of interest. He knew every little diner and who had the best breakfasts all over the region. When we lived in California for 7 years, he made sure I didn't forget my New England heritage by subscribing to Yankee magazine for me every year. When we visited with Nathanael-his first great-grandson-he laughed as Nat immediately turned over the little wagon they had bought for him and started playing with the wheels. "Looking for the brakes, do they need oil?" I wish my kids could have known the love and joy he would have showered on them.
Papa, we miss you.
Papa, we miss you.
