Just got word today that my adopted grandfather passed away on Friday.  My phone has been out of commission since Wednesday (thanks to my dynamic cat duo for managing to pull it into a glass of water–talent!) so I don’t know if anyone tried to contact me or not previously, but that doesn’t matter.  My mom, bless her heart, was thoughtful enough to Skype me instead of just emailing me.  More people should do that rather than hit the text button, but that’s a story for another day.  This post will focus on this wonderful man.

I met Wayne and his wife Delores when I was about 2-3.  I don’t recall this meeting, but I’m so blessed they came into my life.  They lived one house down the block from us.  We aren’t related, but they used to watch me when my parents had ball games and treated me as one of their own grandchildren.

My first memories of them were from the night before my middle sister was born: April 18. 1992. I had just turned 4. Easter was the next day and my family had all been planning on doing the traditional church service in your Easter best, egg hunting, and family meal thing.  That evening, my parents dropped me off to spend the night with “Grandma and Grandpa”–I’m sure I had known them previously, but my small brain vividly remembers this memory as the first with them.  I was in my zip up Little Mermaid footie pajamas (you know, those onesie deals that every adult thinks are cute now) and planned on sleeping on the couch.  I had no idea my new baby sister was about to be born.  I remember not sleeping well on the couch and crawling into bed between grandma and grandpa.

From then on, I was forever going to visit them.  Grandpa Wayne bought me my first tricycle. Not one of those cheap plastic trikes either.  It was pink metal and had a white seat with pink and green roses.  His favorite story was how I couldn’t make the turn to the house.  I would “pedal and pedal and pedal” but when I couldn’t turn to get to the porch, I’d get so frustrated.  He always laughed at that part.

I find myself remembering little bits and pieces of memories of him as I type.

He always smelled of Marlboro cigarettes, wood shavings, and aftershave.

I used to sit on his lap in his favorite old recliner playing with a solar powered calculator and a plastic magnify glass.

He always wore tall brown boots that would cover my entire leg when I tried to put them on.

He always drove to the coffee shop for cards and joe with the other old men.

He was always in the shop working on this or that.  He worked with wood and instilled a love of it within me as well.  He had every power tool known to man in that shop.  He was missing the tips of some of his fingers–I never asked him how, I always assumed it was from a slip on the table saw, but the could have been from his military days.

He made John Deere tractor bird houses and squirrel feeders out of pickle jars.

He mailed me a hammer, wood pieces, and nails for my birthday one year when we moved to Georgia.

Any time I would visit, my first stop was the shop to build something with him.  I have a miniature doll house with simple furniture we built together–with a working hinged door–and various other pieces we made on our visits. He always helped me measure and cut. He rarely let me use the drill press unsupervised. I have a model airplane he thought up on the spot painted in red, white, and blue.  He just started cutting out the shapes and within an hour or two, we had an airplane.  It is one of the few pieces to have survived my many moves.  It’s broken now, but the pieces are still intact and I plan to put it back together to hang from our future son’s ceiling. I keep a jewelry box we made together in my office.

I have many happy memories from my time spent with him.  He is family, even though he didn’t have to be.

In recent years, Alzheimer’s reared its ugly head again for one of my beloved grandparents. He was not himself and it hurt to see the changes again in someone else I loved. Grandma Dee, his wife, did what she could to keep him home, but he went to the care center in July–I was able to see them in March.  He didn’t have much time in the center (a blessing really).

I’m not sure how to talk to Grandma in the next few days.  My mother said she was feeling numb.  She wanted to feel something, but couldn’t.  As far as the disease had progressed, it’s not hard to see why.  In her mind, he was already gone.  I’m sure she will grieve.  It will just take some time to sink in.  She’s a wonderful lady and loved him very much.

It was easy to love him.  And that’s why it hurts so much to miss him right now.

Wish I was home for the funeral, but that’s impossible in the next few days with flights over $1000. So I’ll remember him my way.  With cheesy potatoes and Pepsi–staples when visiting him.

RIP Grandpa Wayne.  Thank you for teaching me so much and loving me when you didn’t have to even know me. I love you and miss you.

-A.