My two grandfathers passed away within a couple of months of each other: Grandpa Rath (my mom’s dad) in October and Grandpa Overland (my dad’s dad) on New Year’s Eve.
Grandpa Rath
Grandpa was my “California Grandpa” whom I saw around once a year. I remember his visits; how he gave tight, enveloping hugs; how he smelled if Old Spice and peppermint; how he laughed loudly and from his gut.
During his visits my sister and I would have to showcase our accomplishments. For my poor sister, who is musical, it meant she had to give a violin recital. For myself, an athlete, it usually meant I showed him how I could jump my bike off of the gravel pile in the front drive, or I detailed my sports triumphs and losses. But what was really special about his visit, was that he took us all out to dinner. Going out for dinner was a rare occasion in my family and even rarer was going out to the type of restaurant he took us to. Our destination was not fast food or Denny’s, but a gourmet establishment like The Keg. And I was even allowed to order steak.
Several times while growing up, we took a road trip as a family to stay with him at his beach house time share on Monterey Bay. It was such fun staying so close to the beach, going to sleep to the sound of the waves crashing, and awaking to the sight of a large migration of birds flying along the coast. The picture above was taken during our last trip to the beach house in July 2008.
Grandpa Overland
Grandpa Overland lived about 20 minutes away from us, so we saw him regularly or at least at every birthday and holiday. I remember Grandpa as so loving. He had a practical and gentle way of loving us (that my own father inherited).
One of his special talents and daily responsibilities was cooking breakfast (which my father also inherited). He had a set weekly menu that went something like this: Monday—hot cereal (soaked overnight with prunes and served with cream), Tuesday—French toast, Wednesday—flinsin, etc. All of us grandkids loved his flinsin the most. Flinsin are like German pancakes or crepes. His would come out tasting of a hint of butter and sweetness and we’d add condiments like more butter, honey, and Grandma’s homemade applesauce (I liked the pink, tart kind the best). My father made these regularly for us growing up and I make them regularly today, but neither of us can quite do it like Grandpa—never with lumps, always the perfect ratio of eggs to flour to milk.
Grandpa was a farmer, though his formal job was as an agronomist for the military. He loved working in his yard. I remember him in his overalls, work boots, cap, and leather gloves as we played in corn rows or trails or woods or the play house he built.
Grandpa always wanted to know what was going on in our world. He would ask about what we were learning in school or church, how our jobs were going, or about the trip we had taken.
And he loved to share about his trips, too. He would bringing out pictures or old slides after dinner and tell of the amazing gas mileage he accomplished with his car or describe the glacier he and Grandma viewed or detail the family visit to see a man name Bill (I think) who lived alone in the wilderness.
The two pictures above are from our visit with Grandpa and Grandma on Mother's Day. In the first, Levi is pushing Grandpa's walker. Notice the stuffed animal on his walker. Grandpa love wolves and received wolf memorabilia for every birthday and Christmas.
I will miss both of my Grandpas, but in the words of Jayber Crow (by Wendell Berry): "I thought of an unimaginable thought of something I could almost imagine, of a sound I could not imagine but could almost hear: the outcry when a soul shakes off death at last and comes into Heaven. I don't speak of this because I 'know' it. What I know is that shout of limitless joy, love unbound at last, our only native tongue." (italics added)
