We who have walked this earth for a time come to understand that nothing we treasure remains the same, no matter how tightly we grasp it. There is change in the breeze, there is a shift underfoot, even when we blind ourselves to it.
In the autumn of 1959, my father held his breath with sorrow and concern as an auctioneer worked his way through the farm sale of his maternal grandfather. Widowed unexpectedly, Grandpa Charlie was a lost soul. His wife, Charlie’s complete opposite in demeanor and character, had always told him and anyone else who would listen exactly how it was going to be. Suddenly, alone after Anna Chloe’s sudden death in 1958, Charlie had lost his desire to go on.
His drive to work from sunup to sundown on his farm had slipped through his fingers and vanished from his heart. Those who loved him had never seen Charlie so withdrawn, the spark gone from his blue eyes.
“If the Farmall M goes higher than I can afford today, could I pay you over a few months?” my father asked.
“Of course you can. And I hope you get it,” Grandpa Charlie replied.
At the end of that day, Dad owned his first red tractor. In the coming months, that Farmall M proved to be an unexpected ticket back to joy. The no-frills, solid tractor parked on new ground slowly gave Charlie his spark back, as he helped my parents on their farm. No matter the chore, Charlie was quick to choose “the best tractor you’ve got” to get any job done.
Dad very clearly saw the sad and the glorious that John Mellencamp wrote about. Life was winding down for his Grandpa Charlie, as a glorious chapter was opening for his beloved grandson.
In the end, it was this give and take of sadness and excitement over something new and growing that gave renewed life to Charlie. Into this mix, pushing through some grueling chores, the work gave both pride and joy to his grandson, pulling his grandfather back to smiles and orneriness which had long defined him.
My mom and four little girls added to this balance, as Grandpa Charlie became the baby girl’s biggest fan. I was a happy baby, drawn to my white-haired great-grandpa with squeals of delight when he walked in the door.
“You gave him exactly what he needed,” my dear dad once told me.
Grandpa Charlie got his spark back, bouncing me on his knee, gales of giggles flowing. My mother cooked for him, feeding his simple love of meat and potatoes to put his lost weight back on, catering to his sweet tooth with cookies, cake and candy.
There are black and white pictures of me, wearing Grandpa Charlie’s engineer cap, smiling from ear to ear. He often gave me candy from his pocket, and we were thick as thieves.
One chapter closes, another opens. Life offers proof, every single day, that it can be both sad and glorious for everyone walking through it. Hold on tight.
