This is a story about a garden and a truck and a man with a smile like you wouldn’t believe. This is a story about Alzheimer’s. This is a story about a family. This is a story about life and death. My Poppy died on September 6, 2010, though that seems to be starting at the end of the story.
When I think about my grandfather, I think of a few things. I think of a truck and a garden. I suppose calling a truck really doesn’t do it justice. This wasn’t just one truck, it was a lifetime of trucks. They were mostly blue or black, with enough room in the bed for five and half lawnmowers and enough room in the backseat for four and a half grandchildren. Though, honestly, that doesn’t do them justice either.
Thinking about Poppy’s truck is like thinking about the man himself. I will never forget climbing into the backseat, trying not to touch rusty and dirty tools that I couldn’t identify. I will never forget waiting outside of school for him to take me to the orthodontist, or his hand smacking my knee and singing about buckling my seatbelt and Froggy went a courting while he took me to horse back riding lessons. I will never forget digging in the bed of the truck when it was full of mulch, or watching the road, holding on for dear life and trying not to talk because he’d turn so he could hear every word you said.
I remember putting sodas in the fridge before climbing into the truck to mow grass, three or four across the back seat, always grudgingly, hating that lucky kid with his face in the vent up front. The way we would unravel like a sleeping bag while mowing and try to pack ourselves back in, sticky with sweat and the knowledge that there was always more grass to be mowed, never quite fitting, but getting home all the same. I remember that truck, I don’t think I could forget.
Poppy had a garden, in the middle of the suburbs. When he was himself, you would never go a day without seeing him out there, tilling, pulling weeds, or just roaming. Then, when he started to leave, he would ride his tractor in circles, a big straw hat on his head. That garden was a staple of my childhood. They say that most people will eat a pound of dirt during the course of their lifetime. I got my pound of dirt early, picking strawberries, blackberries, and red raspberries straight from the garden. I was helping, making jelly.
Poppy had another kind of garden, one that you couldn’t really see. As much as he loved his garden, I think he would have given up the first for the second any day. It sounds foolish to call his family a garden, but he was the sun. When Poppy was in a room, every conversation faced him. This may have been because he couldn’t participate otherwise, or because of the sheer force of his personality. He was never an angry man, never had to fight for the attention of those he loved best. Our faces, like the flowers he loved so well, were always turned to him. He was the center of this garden and he took care of us. And then later, when he couldn’t be the sun, he was the center again. This time, it would be our turn, and we would care for him.
When Poppy died, it was a mercy. Alzheimer’s had slowly stripped away from him first his memory, then his health, and finally his dignity. It was easy and simple to say that he was at peace now, he could hear, he could see, and he could remember. Still, the garden has lost its sun, and no one can step in to take his place. I am picking up my pieces, learning to grow a little wilder, and missing the man who made me who I am. I miss you Poppy.
