Never discount the value of what you think are insignificant items you possess. An item may not have much monetary value, but sentimental value sometimes doesn’t quite capture it’s worth either. There’s more to the item than that. The time comes for all of us, we hope, when our loved ones remember something very fondly, and specific about us that defines us, in their mind. Our loved ones know us best, and they think of us in ways we have no idea. I saw a picture today, of a grandfather wearing a great jacket , holding two grandsons, wearing the same great jacket. It reminded me of Grandad’s old coat.
I reminisce…
My older brother and two older sisters got to visit for a week every summer, my paternal grandparents, and some family friends of my parents when we were young. I was the fourth of five, and was mischievous, so while I wanted to visit my grandparents alone over the summer as well, I was never allowed. My father always felt I would be too big of a handful for my grandparents.
My grandfather was a hard man, who’d had a hard life. There was no time for small talk, and he didn’t say please or thank you. He had few words to say. But my father held him in very high regard as a wise man, and great father. He was suffering from Black Lung, having been a coal miner by trade. In earlier days, he had almost never missed his daily walks in the forest in the hills of St. Michael, Pennsylvania. As his condition deteriorated, his walks became less frequent.
We would “slightly more than seldom”, but “not quite often” take the 6 hour drive from our home in Maryland to visit. When we would visit, it was the big thing to hike into the woods and scramble up and down the debris piles that littered the outside of one of the mines my grandfather worked in earlier years. We never ventured into the mine, we knew how dangerous it was. We also loved to shoot. We’d take the .22 out and shoot cans and bottles and such we’d find along the road just above where the “crick” ran.
One particular visit, when I was probably about 7-8 years old, maybe younger, My grandfather was having a decent day, so he decided he was going to go for one of his walks. I’m not sure if I asked to go, or if I was told to go, but I remember my grandfather never looked at me, or said a word, he just put on his coat, walked out the back door, and started walking. I looked at my dad, and he nodded, I began to follow my grandfather.
I don’t remember a lot about our walk, but I’m pretty sure we probably didn’t go more than about a mile. Grandad didn’t walk fast you see, he was a hunter, and he moved deliberately, but quietly. He never looked back at me, nor said a word until we got to a spot in the woods where he saw something. It was a set of deer trails that converged then went off into different directions. He stopped. I stopped about 6 feet behind him, which was where I felt I needed to be. He gave me a quick look, I took it as a cue to approach. He asked me “What is this?” I replied “It’s a deer trail”. He then asked “which way did it go?” I looked for a moment, and pointed at one trail in particular. He said nothing, he just turned and started walking again. I followed, again keeping what I believed to be the right distance.
We got back to the house. Grandad hung up his jacket and walked into the living room. He says to my dad “Hey Skip”. Dad says “yeah Pop?”. Grandad answers ” Your son would make a hell of a hunter.” I didn’t know what it meant at the time.
He would die a few years later, one week before my 13th birthday, after succumbing to complications from black lung while in the hospital. My father took it so hard, as did the family. Grandad was a wise patriarch and was well respected. My grandmother, the next time we visited, asked me if there was anything I wanted of the few remaining items that were in the back room where he had kept his rifles. There wasn’t much materially left of his earthly presence. The rifles were of course gone, but his old wall rifle rack was there, and on it, barely hanging on was the old wool Jacket I’d seen him wear so many times before, on his walks. I smiled. I took the jacket off the rack, gave grandmom a hug, and said “thank you grandmom”. She threw in the rifle rack.
Decades have passed. It wasn’t until years later, I understood what that verbal exchange he had with my father meant, when he and I returned from the woods. I’m keeping that to myself.
I share that great love of walking in the woods that he did. I’ll also never forget that one day, that first and only walk, I spent with him in his element. It is now my element. I’m eternally grateful for the man he was, and for the very little time I spent with him. Though the time spent with him wasn’t nearly enough, I have one fantastic memory of being alone with him in the woods, on a cold, sunny, winter day. Oh yeah, I have other things. That old Gunrack he kept in the back room, and most importantly, that old wool jacket my grandmother gave to me on that visit. I now wear Grandad’s old coat regularly, when I go for my walks in the woods.
Grandad’s Old Coat
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