The Potato Garden

It has been more than 5 years since my grandfather passed away, but for some reason this week, I have been unable to stop thinking about him.

It began on Thanksgiving Day with a vivid memory of potato gardening with him in the backyard of the house where my mom grew up. With pitchfork in hand, Grandy used to dig up the potatoes, and it was our job to keep an eye out for them and catch them as they were unearthed. “Up, up! There’s one . . . and another! And don’t forget that little guy there!” The anticipation of waiting for more and more “apples of the earth” to be revealed was palpable and kept me fixated with a child’s passionate concentration on the rich, dark soil being turned over before me.

Last Thursday, I could almost smell the black humus of the garden bed, see the soil caked beneath my nails, and watch an earthworm wriggling frantically back to safety. I could envision my grandfather’s face as he pointed out potato after potato, his excitement egging on my own. I could see the exact twist of his arm as he pulled up forkful after forkful of earth. And then I thought, with a desperate, aching wish: “I hope Grandy is teaching Lizzy how to potato garden this Thanksgiving.”

Until Lizzy was born, I felt that my grandfather was the best person I ever knew. He was a man of deep faith and prayer, who allowed his beliefs to inform his actions and choices in everything that he did. He rarely even raised his voice, and his authority in the family was unspoken and unquestioned not because he demanded it, but because he deserved it. He had an excellent sense of humor and irony but was also unfailingly kind, even when he was reprimanding you, which he would only ever do in private. He was a man of diverse talents: a race-car driver, carpenter, veteran of the Korean War, gardener, farmer, fine-furniture artisan, and mechanic. And his lack of college education didn’t stop him from imparting some of the most relevant wisdom and important life lessons I learned while growing up.

I cannot think about Grandy without remembering the feel of being pulled along in the shiny, red, wooden sleigh that he made for us as the snow fell around us, the sleigh bells jingled behind us, and my grandmother laughed, watching from the porch before going inside to prepare some hot chocolate. To this day, I remember my childhood Christmases at my grandparents’ house like something out of a dream.

Christmas at my grandparents’ took place right after Christmas morning at home, and since my grandparents lived only a few blocks away, there was no delay in excitement transitioning from one celebration to another. My aunt made stockings for the whole family that were hung snugly on the fireplace mantel, side by side, in order to accommodate the sheer quantity. My sisters and I loved arranging the nativity set beneath the small, artificial Christmas tree that somehow seemed to illuminate the whole living room. After a casual brunch and opening presents, the kids would run upstairs to play dress-up while the adults chatted and started working towards Christmas dinner.

I had an early obsession with theater and conducted yearly nativity plays for the adults, sourcing my actors from among my sisters and cousins. One year, we even put on a full-blown dramatization of The Night Before Christmas, complete with programs, curtains, costumes, sets, and props. Grandy made us a prop fireplace with electric logs that crackled all through our production with dramatic ambiance. He then made a series of signs giving the audience clues on when to applaud, laugh, and variously encourage the actors. I don’t know how to describe how much fun we had putting on that play.

There was something so special about the way we experienced our grandfather’s love, whether it was waking one Christmas morning to the gorgeous, meticulous dollhouse he had crafted for us and painted robin’s-egg blue or how particular he was about slow-cooking bacon and using sour milk in his pancakes. Since we could walk to Grammy and Grandy’s from school, we took regular trips there during Advent to make our presents in Grandy’s basement workshop. A woodworker’s paradise, this unfinished half of a suburban basement was transformed each December into a Mecca of creativity by nothing more than a sign Grandy had made reading “Elves at Work,” which he put out each year.

It didn’t matter what project I had in mind, whether it be using a kit to craft a Winnie-the-Pooh ornament that could sit or stand with the pull of a string or a handmade book of my sketches and drawings, Grandy’s workshop was the place that we made our Christmas presents. It was also the place that we learned how to wrap our presents. Grandy was not only an old pro at wrapping, but he had a particular bugaboo about clean and tidy wrapping without wasting tape. In typical Grandy fashion, he would show you how to wrap the present perfectly and then unwrap the entire thing so that you then had to do it yourself. An endlessly patient man, he would stand by you in the process, restraining the urge to just do it himself in the interest of teaching you a new skill. Grandy advocated working “smart” rather than “hard” and would never fail to show us a better or more efficient way to complete whatever task we had set our minds to. Grandy’s workshop was our destination for everything from science fair projects to a hands-on lesson in fixing the chair leg we just happened to break last week.

I can’t properly describe what it felt like to sit next to Grandy in his big, cushy recliner and fall asleep watching The Nutcracker on Ice. Or to watch him sit quietly and patiently through my Wednesday violin lessons, occasionally nodding off despite my discordant and amateur practice. Or to watch him build a fire log by log. Or sneak fried chicken behind my grandmother’s back. Or teach me why it’s important to be five minutes early. Or to shoot a free throw. Or mow the lawn. Or own up to my mistakes.

It took me many years to learn that not everyone had the relationship with their grandparents that I did. It took me even longer to begin to understand that, in all the most important ways, my sisters and I were blessed with nearly perfect grandparents. And that these ways are so precious and so inviolate that no loss and no grief can ever take them from us.

Last week, on Thanksgiving Day, I told my little sister that I didn’t understand why the two best people in our family had to die. The fact that Grandy and Lizzy are no longer with us is a reality that I am forced to wake up to every day and one that I am still struggling to accept. But like with any unfathomable mystery, the more you try to fathom it, the more you begin to realize that the reason that governs that mystery is so very much bigger than you. It is not hard to believe or to know that Grandy and Lizzy are in heaven. It is hard to understand, however, why they are no longer with you on earth.

Lizzy is buried beside my grandfather, who, to this day, remains the best man I have ever known. I like to think that after Jesus and Mary, Grandy’s were the first arms to enfold Lizzy and welcome her into everlasting light. After she was born, I used to grieve that Lizzy never knew Grandy, and from time to time, I would tell her about the kind of man that he was–the kind of father, the kind of grandfather. I like to think now that Lizzy has first-hand experience of the kind of great-grandfather that Grandy is, and that, while we are down here crying and sorrowing and striving, Grandy and Lizzy are busy digging up plump and perfect potatoes and planning the Thanksgiving feast that one day–if we work hard enough–we’ll share with them.