He was my grandma’s favorite grandson. And that is perfectly OK. He was my mama’s favorite nephew. And that’s understandable, too. He was the first of my generation in my mom's family. And I think it is no surprise if we all loved him best and are not afraid to say it...because he was, after all, the first born child of my mom's three siblings, as well as her self.
He was a lot like our grandpa; strong yet quiet, with all the characteristics a Norwegian heritage brings. He was a private individual and modest, with not even an iota of pride in the negative connotation of that word. But he was like our grandma too. He sparkled when he told a story, or relayed a memory from his youth. He loved it all. And he laughed only sometimes; but when he did, it was honest and real. I am sure he was like his dad, too; though I never had the opportunity to know his dad, since he and his mother (my mom’s sister) divorced when they were young.
The grandparents’ extra love for this grandson was not so very surprising. They had a huge part in his upbringing. He spoke more of them, than he did anyone else. Likewise for my grandma when she was alive. We could actually breathe in and feel our grandma’s love for this firstborn grandson. It was so exceptionally deep. She exuded pride when she spoke of him. We could feel it and it would warm us all.
I remember as a child looking up to this older cousin of mine. He played with us and made us laugh. He loved deeply and we knew it; he didn’t have to say it. As a child, I bragged to my friends of his strong, honorable character and spoke of him with pride when he went off to college.
I remember years later, (decades, actually) my mom and him walking across the yard of my childhood home. Hand in hand they sauntered, as Mama led him over to see the new little tree I had given her, and which my dad had planted along the fence line – A Golden Chain. It was a start from my own tree. The effort to share that tree is probably what had killed the tree in my own yard, by taking too many shoots from it at once. I had given away many of those shoots, but Mama’s was the only transplant that survived. I always said, that I didn’t kill my tree. I simply moved it to a different yard. Mom was so proud of that little tree. It brought her so much joy. And she loved sharing it with her “favorite nephew”. He happily shared in the joy that day with his “dear old aunt”. I captured that image in my mind, in that moment, never to let it go.
He was so proud of my dad. I loved it when he shared those stories. The two had a special bond. He told me many times that Daddy taught him much of what he knew about firearms and shooting; the thing that became, for my cousin, a life long necessary skill, hobby and love.
Years later in life, he and I shared a love of reading and we often discussed the books we had both read. We had many conversations about the state of our nation and the concerns we both held. I often wondered if he learned that from my dad, too. I never asked where he came by his point of view. I should have...that, and a whole lot more.
I got the news yesterday of his passing. I didn’t think it would happen. I knew he was sick, but I simply believed it would all be OK. I thought we would soon be meeting him for lunch in the town we both loved. I thought we would be making a summer trip to finally bring to fruition all those plans we had discussed – of four wheeling in the beautiful countryside they lived; of a family reunion; and pitching a tent in their yard; a plan of taking our son and daughter-in-law to see their beautiful home.
I failed once again in all the things I should have done.
I should have been there on Christmas Day. I should have been there when he went home. I should have recorded him telling stories on video, or tape. I should have written down all the stories and knowledge he had. It is mostly gone forever now. We will remember some of it. We will pass it on. But it is no longer a first-hand eye witness account expressed with all the love that he exuded for whom he remembered and spoke.
I want to go “up home” today. This is one of the things that calls me "home". My husband is not as agreeable to that today, as he was last time. It is wrong timing, I suppose. Perhaps it should have been yesterday; or in the days before now. Perhaps there will be a need tomorrow and we will go. Life gets in the way of life sometimes, or we are restricted in some manner not always through any fault of our own. Sometimes circumstances, or even the unknowable simply leads to the unintentional, but not for lack of caring....
Maybe a long time ago in the holding of a hand, or the joy of a moment shared together, a seed is planted and a root established and grabbed hold of somewhere along the way. Maybe it isn't always apparent, but maybe there is a shoot, a living root like Mama's Golden Chain that is the only one to survive, left to live somewhere in a heart. Even though everything seems to be lost, perhaps nonetheless a part of it - a link, a connection - has survived. Something to grab hold in ones darkest hours.
What I do know is God provides and makes a way when we ask...it isn’t always where we can see it, or in the place we think it should be. But rather, maybe it is a root that remains because someone planted with love which allowed it to live from somewhere within; to be grasped at just the right time...a bit like reaching for and holding onto someone's hand to lead the way to see the Golden Chain.
I choose to believe that.
