Today is Wednesday and I found myself craving a cucumber. Since I have recently re-joined Weight Watchers, I knew I had some in the office fridge. I grabbed all the proper cucumber cutting tools and mindlessly began making myself a snack. Then it happened.
There I stood, in the kitchen at work, cutting a cucumber and holding back tears. Because today is Wednesday and no one could grow a cucumber like my grandfather.
Every Wednesday, for many years, my family picks up the grand kids and goes visit at my grandparents house. It's a day to laugh and visit and love. But it's not the same anymore. When my grandfather passed away everything changed. While others rejoiced over the mid-week hump, I often find myself sad driving home and knowing he won't be there.
When someone dies we go through many stages of sadness. There is the initial sadness that haunts you 24 hours a day. The sadness that you can't escape even in sleep. Then there is the day to day sadness. Those moments when you realize that they are really gone and your life is forever changed. After a few months it's the creeping sadness. You feel it on holidays and birthdays, trying to beat it back while you strive to enjoy the day. After a few more months it's the memory sadness. I think this one is the worst. It's driving past the Mowata store and having a craving for boudin and not knowing why that makes you want to cry. It's setting up the chairs at the campground and feeling that your still waiting on the rest of your family to arrive. It's Moe Bandy on the radio and having to pull over on the side of the road because you can't see through the tears. And today, it's cutting a cucumber on a Wednesday and knowing that I'll never have one of his cucumbers again.
My grandfather was amazing. He was funny and caring and he pinched really hard. He had false teeth that he would scare the children with. He was a diabetic and our family would often catch him at the grocery store buying sweets. One day he was caught in the grocery store parking lot eating a small loaf of french bread in his truck. My grandmother watched his food intake, so he would have to eat his goodies in the truck between the store and his house, which was less that one mile. He loved to camp and we loved to camp with him. He is the man I was named after, and I couldn't imagine a better person's name to have.
There is a campground in heaven and he is there. Walking around with his fly-swatter, listening to Moe Bandy, sneaking candy in the camper and giving cucumbers away to all who visit. I know he watches over me and I know that someday we'll sit together and visit again. And I already know just what I'll say when I see him again......