Happy Birthday, Grandad

My Grandparents have never qualified as what you would call “Empty Nesters”. They helped raise five sets of children. With grandchildren from age six to forty-something, each set of us came in a different decade. There were lessons each of us gleaned from their example that would serve us our whole lives.
Grandma taught me how to make a bed and that brown and serve rolls were every bit as good as any made from scratch. Grandad taught me how to cheat at tic tac toe and how to run a log splitter. He was a successful businessman, in spite of his terrible memory for numbers (he never could keep count of all of my ribs; he would always lose his place and have to start over).
Spending the night at Grandma’s was never as fun as Friday night when Grandad came home from "the woods" where he worked. When he came through the door in his green coveralls, he would give us each a hug and rub our faces with his whiskers. We could always count on Dr Pepper with Rocky Road Ice Cream before bed. On Saturday mornings, he would cook Bugs Bunny Pancakes and the most perfectly cooked bacon you’ve ever tasted- not too bendy, not too crispy. And he always made sure I had a black fork. After breakfast, he would let us drive the riding mower or tag along after him doing some other chore outside.
But, their biggest legacy is one of great love and deep faith.
I would sit between them during church and Grandad would keep me supplied with a steady stream of tic tacs to keep me quiet. One precious gift he gave me was his passion and joyous expression in his singing. I loved watching him lead the congregation on Sunday nights. I can still see him conducting a chorus “Heavenly Sunlight” with my Uncle Mark on piano and mother playing organ. He infused such joy into each song. As I got older, I never understood it when people would comment how boring the old hymns were.
When I was nineteen years old, I was visiting Grandma and Grandad at the Santa Ana house one afternoon. We sat and visited at the kitchen table. Grandad was playfully aggravating Grandma, as usual, while she stood at the sink to wash dishes. He stood in the doorway, his face full of mischief, when she gasped in frustration and rounded on him with an exasperating, “Dad!”
He then looked at her with such intensity, as though he had never beheld anything as beautiful or amazing as she was right in that moment. His smile spoke a language only she could understand. Her expression softened as she first furrowed her brow, then returned a bashful grin reminiscent of her seventeen-year-old self. No one else existed.
I knew right then and there what true love looked like. No book or movie could ever duplicate it. I could never give it a just description. I also knew, that was how I wanted to be looked at one day, for the rest of my life.
Over a year later, I had met and struck up a special friendship with a certain guitar player. We were working at Jenness Park in the Sierras for the summer. We were crowded in a car full of students on the way to Lodi to see a Continentals concert. We were all laughing and having a good time, when my guitar player friend looked down at me with a look similar to one I had only ever seen once. This look didn't have the weight that comes with 70 years, but the same look with a freshness and limitless possibilities. It was surreal. I felt my heart beat in my throat. He then kissed me on the forehead, as though I were a precious treasure. I could only gawk at him. I had to remind myself to breathe. He was doomed from that moment. We were married thirteen months later.
My husband would later tell me that he knew the moment he saw me I was the one for him, but any doubts he may have had were eradicated the first time he saw me run a log splitter.