I stood staring at what was left. Looking around, remembering how much fun I had had there as a boy.
Playing in the hayloft, looking at the equipment. I remembered walking down the aisle between the cows butts, scared of getting sprayed when they went to the bathroom. I remembered my brother’s hayfever that would come on after we had visited the cows, but that would never stop us. I remembered a huge snapping turtle, and a family of raccoons in the hollow tree near the road. I remembered walking around the property, walking around the fields. The time my dad shot the old blackpowder gun in the corn field and we looked for the bullets. I remembered finally being old enough to go to the barn without adult supervision.
I never realized we were such city kids, but maybe that’s why we loved visiting the farm. We loved when we knew we were going to visit Grandma and Grandpa Cummings. The last 10 minutes of the drive were so exciting as we wound around those roads, and rolled with the hills, we would scream “there it is!” when the barn would come into view.
I remembered how much I loved watching the process of the cows being milked, the hoses running to the big tank in the little room. The door to the barn with the weight hanging from the rope. The day we found a newborn calf in the spot where the manure truck usually was. We loved to see the calves and the cows.
I remembered the old farmhouse. The old wide wood planks in the floor that would creak as they were stepped on. I remember sleeping in the old beds, listening to the sounds of the old house, thinking it might be haunted. I remember the one bathroom, having waited too long and then having to wait some more, especially at thanksgiving, after stuffing ourselves around the big table in the big room. I remembered grandpa’s desk, the paperweights he had and the magnifying glass. I remembered exploring around the old sheds in the yard.
I stood and stared. I breathed in the cool fresh air, enjoyed the warm sun on my face, inhaled the scent of the earth. I felt the waves of nostalgia come over me. I wondered what it would be like to spend my whole life as a farmer. I thought then about the lifestyle that shaped my grandpa.
I have always called him my grandpa. Even though I had already been born when he married Lee,my grandmother, Richard Cummings was always “grandpa” to me. Dick, as he was called by aunts and uncles and parents, was always my grandpa.
I honestly never knew the man inside the man. I still don’t know what made him tick. I can’t seem to place a finger on who he was internally, I don’t know his emotions, I never had a spiritual discussion with him. I only knew him the way most men know each other, through my own life’s encounters with him, my memories of time spent with him.
I believe time spent with my Grandfather was time spent with a man who had been shaped by years in the presence of God. To spend time with my grandpa was to spend time with a man who had the very character of God. My grandpa was humble. He was strong, he was calm, I never sensed the presence of worry in him. When I spent time with my grandpa, I felt like everything would be ok, I felt like I was ok, he was peaceful and patient. Grandpa was happy. He just seemed to have a gift, a happiness that was supernatural.
When I visualize Grandpa, I see his smile. I can see him nodding and smiling and doing his soft laugh as he would listen and offer his opinions and thoughts, I would wonder why he smiled and nodded and laughed softly to himself the whole time.
Maybe Grandpa’s joy and confidence were supplied by the Huskies. I remember him sitting in his favorite chair, watching UCONN with my Grandma. It must have been nice to be a UCONN fan during their dynasty era, especially the girls.
My favorite memory with Grandpa was the time we killed the afternoon in the backyard of our house on Agostino Dr. He was hanging pitches in the strikezone for me, and letting me crush the bright orange ball. We played until we were tired. That must have been 20 years ago now, and I can still see him smiling, and rubbing his shin after he couldn’t get his glove down fast enough for the ball.
Grandpa loved to hear my stories. What I was into at the time, what I was doing for work. He loved to hear me talk about the moving business, loved to hear where we had been. He loved to hear about our travels and loved to hear about the trucks. Grandpa loved trucks and tractors, trailers and travel.
I remember looking at their album from their travel to Mexico, I did not even know where Mexico was. I vaguely remember them taking a trip to Hawaii, and their trip to Alaska. I remember thinking how cool that was. My last memory of their travels is that they had been on a safari in Africa, I swore that someday I would also take my wife traveling, some day I would take my wife to Africa for a safari.
I remember the time we went camping, and I got sick, I think all we had was a pop up camper, so I stayed with grandma and grandpa because they had a bathroom, and I was allowed to watch the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics on the TV in their camper. We didn’t have a TV in our camper and remember what a privilege it was to lay on their couch by myself.
I remember getting to ride in my grandparents pickup truck when we went camping, we may have been in California or Montana, I can’t remember, it was a long journey.
Grandpa loved journeys. He seemed to love the journey as much as the destination.
That day that we visited the barn after it had burned down, I stood with my fiance and remembered the past. I stood and wondered about my future. I thought about the life I assumed my Grandpa lived, the years of working long days on a farm. His love for his animals and his family. I wondered about the changes in technology he had seen in his life, wondered what he thought about as he rode his tractor alone. What he had thought about in all those hours in the fields, next to the cows. All the hours behind windshields, where did his mind wander? I wondered if I could live this life. I wondered about how his life had shaped mine, even if it was just brief glimpses of each other.
It is very difficult as I sit here in South Africa typing, next to my wife, for me to think that I can’t be there tomorrow as we say a final good bye. I can only say thank you Grandpa for being a model for me of a man who fought the fight. A man of character who traveled a long journey. A man who I know is now enjoying his eternal destination more than I can imagine.
Grandpa, there is so much about you I never knew, but I plan on having many stories to tell you when we meet again. I look forward to seeing your smile, seeing you nod, hearing your laugh. But for now, I have a journey to walk, thank you for showing me how. Thank you for showing us how to live.
As for you, I am pretty sure there is the cattle on a thousand hills that need to be milked.
