Memories are passed along

“That’s just sad,” granddaughter Emma told me. We had been cuddled up together while she was sick. She started to whistle. I whistled back. Then I told her that my grandpa had taught me how to whistle by imitating the quail that lived along the edges of our pasture.
 She asked me which grandpa, the one on my mother’s side or the one on my father’s side. I said I only had one grandpa. That’s when she was quiet for a minute before telling me that was sad. She said she had lots of grandpas, perhaps a million eleventy-seven.
I think she exaggerates a bit as I can only count five or maybe six grandpas in her life.
 I had always considered myself to be lucky to have my grandfather. I idolized the man. He was kind, gentle and everything a little girl could want. Some of my earliest and fondest memories are of gathering fat nightcrawlers with him for an upcoming fishing trip. It was a special treat to be allowed outside after dark to search for the wriggly creatures.
When we moved to the farm, he and I walked the fence line. We discovered a pond full of tadpoles and he explained how they would eventually turn into frogs. It was always bright, sunny and warm when I was with him.
 Sometimes we would sit outside on the swing. That’s when he taught me how to whistle. We would call back and forth to the quail. At that time, quail were even more numerous than deer are now. We would whistle, “bob white, bob, bob white” and the birds would answer. Sometimes I wondered if we were imitating them or they were imitating us.
He influenced my taste in food. I was a picky eater. If Mom or Grandma wanted me to eat something, they would tell me that Grandpa cooked it and then I would at least try it. He was the best cook in the house.
 I remember sitting on his lap as he and I shared a tin of sardines with lots and lots of mustard. Even today, when I peel back the lid of a tin, I get that same feeling of being surrounded by his loving arms. Somehow, I doubt if there are very many who associate sardines with love.
I remember the smell of his Mail Pouch tobacco. As much as I despise cigarettes, cigars, and the resulting polluting smoke, the aroma of tobacco always takes me back to the man I adored.
 Later, after he had a series of heart attacks, I would perch on his bed in the living room and chatter about my school day. He seemed to look forward to these times. I would often take my supper in to share with him. He was on a bland diet which he hated. We would secretly trade food and simply enjoy each other’s company.
I was upstairs asleep when he died. I knew he was gone, even before I heard Grandma’s scream. He had stopped to say goodbye to me. Life fell apart after he died and I have missed him terribly. It boggles my mind to realize that I am now only a year younger than he was when he left this world.
I wonder what memories Emma is making with her million eleventy-seven grandpas. One thing is for sure, each and every one of them loves her as much as my grandpa loved me. It is not sad that I had only one grandpa for I had the best one that ever was. I’m sure she does, too.[[In-content Ad]]