Grandpa's White World

When we cleaned the basement the other day, I came across a lot of my writings. I wish I had all my essays from English comp., but sadly I only have a few. I thought I'd share this story about my grandpa because it reminded me of how much I miss him. Please remember this was written years ago and I'm copying it word for word (grammatical error for grammatical error) so don't judge me. Thanks. :)

Ladders clanked their rusty steel against the grotty building while the workers spread their buckets of white paint up and won the rotting boards. The sun was hidden behind a blanket of clouds, and the air remained still as the morning passed.

I smirked as a quick glance caught the bundle of wrinkles imprinted on my grandfather's face. He was overseeing the painting party, and he beamed with a hidden joy only a child could uncover in his sewed on frown.

The little one smacked her miniature brush against the wall spraying white specks quite some distance. I picked up her hand and guided it back to the bucket. I dipped a tiny portion of white onto her brush and twisted it as i rubbed it against the side of the can. She grinned to tell me she understood and went on smacking away.

It was a summer Sunday morning, and the whole family had gathered at my grandparent's house to erase all the worn memories from the buildings. There were children laughing and pushing, grown men telling inappropriate jokes, and ladies gossiping about other ladies. The excitement didn't stir grandma and grandpa one bit; they were merely spectators - grandpa with his mug of ice tea, grandma's ramblings disappearing into the open fields. 

The animals even joined in the family affair. A donkey kicked it's heels and squalled at the lack of attention it was being given, two cows lied motionless in the pasture with an occasional "moo" as a golden-haired girl and I freshened the white on the old pasture gate, a black dog spotted with white specks paced around the yard while a gray haired man belted out orders that only floated through the cool air.

I learned a lot as the morning faded into afternoon. I made a constant stroll back and forth between work and playing with the kids in the cool house. The sun was beginning to peak through as the blanket of clouds slowly disappeared. heat spread from one body to the next and cold drinks were passed along.

The screen doors on the creaky old frames were slammed without any care and grandma cringed as they pounded shut. Dinner wasn't quite ready, but the kids were on break. I glared at my older brother with disgust; he hadn't picked up a paint brush yet. He only came for the food.

Small bodies pushed their way through each other as their knees, heads, and entire bodies met the chilled carpet with a thud. Boxes of toys were strung across the room and giggles could be heard for miles. Two little boys wrestled and rumbled the house. In the kitchen, Grandma fretted over each morsel of food, and I stretched my body the length of the inviting couch.

It seemed like forever, but we were finally given the approval to stuff our growling stomachs. Several dalmation spotted children rested their plate son the ground and created a maze for all the adults to weave their glistened bodies through. It became eerily quiet as everyone chowed down on the warm food and as we ate, we all thought of the real reason we were gathered at their house today.

Through all the laughter, sweat, and smiles that molded an entire Sunday, there was also a sadness lingering high above the white paint and giggling children, over the tops of those rotting buildings. While it was obvious the buildings were in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint, today these buildings showed our respect for my grandfather.

His eyesight had been deteriorating for years, bits at a time. Filled with that true Holbrook stubborness, he wouldn't face the reality that the wasn't going to be able to do the things he loved anymore. He continued to mow our families' lawns, care for his animals, drive to the grocery store, and read his novels until there seemed to be no more hope in his eyes.

It took away a piece of him to give in, but he finally went to a specialist to see if there was anything they could do to give him back the life he loved. Fortunately, there was something they could do. However, the surgery would either barely improve his eyesight or make it worse - that's the risk he had to consider.

So we trudged in early that Sunday morning in our rags, pickups full of ladders and brushes, and stood for my grandfather as he oversaw the painting party. We painted those buildings knowing that it might have been the last time he'd ever see them sparkling white, the last time he'd be able to see his family. And though the old man never showed the gratitude we know he had in his heart - not one thank-you slipped off his tongue - we know how much it meant for him to watch his family come together to show their love for him, his passions, and his life.

That's the day I learned a lesson about my grandfather.  a lesson I will forever hold dear to my heart. Underneath that frown, those wrinkles, hidden by a grouchy demeanor, was a kind-hearted, hard-working man who loved his family. On that Sunday he taught me to live every day to the fullest, because tomorrow you may be blinded from all the things you have loved for so long. There isn't enough white paint in the world to to show my gratitude for the lesson I learned that day.

Two short months later my grandfather was diagnosed with lung cancer. No one could understand it. We were all lost and confused. I remember grandpa taking each kid aside to talk to them about not receiving treatment. in the back of my mind, I didn't want him to go through that either. Those treatments would take him away from the things he loved most in his final days. I wanted him to mow our lawn more than ever, get involved with an old western novel, take the mules out for a wagon ride. Instead of wishing the image I was now seeing of my Grandfather wasn't a dying man hanging on for dear life, I made myself believe that it was just another chapter in his hard-working life, he was now working hard to live.

In his last few weeks of life, my grandfather sat so silently in his brown recliner. With oxygen in his nose, his legs constricted by wraps, and pills in hand, he gazed out those hand-washed windows into the white specks that covered the buildings he had spent so many years in. When he was put in the hospital bed in his final days, he longed to get up and go outside. And on the day he died, in my heart, I could a heard a thank-you slip off his tongue as he made his trip to Heaven.