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Making supper alongside me last night my wife confided quietly to me, smiling, that the evening before, while walking our granddaughter (6 yo) alongside the house from the car to the back patio, our granddaughter had slowed her pace, walked on tiptoe, nose up, inhaling long and deep.
"What are you doing, Addi?" Grandma asked.
"I just love the smell of Grampa's pipe! I can tell he went here."
And I was, of course, at the umbrella table, legs crossed, calmly sipping, watching a rabbit eating at clover in front of me before it ran away when they turned the corner.
I saw myself through my granddaughter's eyes right then, how she would picture me forever. Grampa was a tall, quiet man, who kept to himself, mostly out back, where he clenched a pipe while he was prying dandelions and thistles from his lawn. Who tricked me into picking up all the sticks by starting a fire in the bonfire ring and telling me anything I picked up, I got to put on the fire -- then sat himself at the umbrella table, sipping his pipe, eyes gleaming at his Tom-Sawyery invention.
A man who listened to my endless stories of my busy, busy 6-year-old day, never interrupting, just tamping his ember's ash now and then, looking away from me only long enough to make sure the ash was contained.
While he smoked, he often wore his felt cowboy hat, and was always dressed in blue jeans with a loose, untucked workshirt.
And he smelled like... grampa. Tobaccos I didn't know the names for then, but heard him answer Gramma back, "slices" or "flakes."
He kept them in a Mason jar. "I almost thought they were jerky, Grampa, and was gonna ask if I could have some."
She is vehemently against smoking. She rolls her eyes when she sees me reach for the jar. But she can't look away when I tap out the dottle or run a pipe cleaner through. She is memorizing me without knowing that she is memorizing me.
I've been there myself. I was 6 once, so I know: though I've never been on this end of the memory till just now.
"What are you doing, Addi?" Grandma asked.
"I just love the smell of Grampa's pipe! I can tell he went here."
And I was, of course, at the umbrella table, legs crossed, calmly sipping, watching a rabbit eating at clover in front of me before it ran away when they turned the corner.
I saw myself through my granddaughter's eyes right then, how she would picture me forever. Grampa was a tall, quiet man, who kept to himself, mostly out back, where he clenched a pipe while he was prying dandelions and thistles from his lawn. Who tricked me into picking up all the sticks by starting a fire in the bonfire ring and telling me anything I picked up, I got to put on the fire -- then sat himself at the umbrella table, sipping his pipe, eyes gleaming at his Tom-Sawyery invention.
A man who listened to my endless stories of my busy, busy 6-year-old day, never interrupting, just tamping his ember's ash now and then, looking away from me only long enough to make sure the ash was contained.
While he smoked, he often wore his felt cowboy hat, and was always dressed in blue jeans with a loose, untucked workshirt.
And he smelled like... grampa. Tobaccos I didn't know the names for then, but heard him answer Gramma back, "slices" or "flakes."
He kept them in a Mason jar. "I almost thought they were jerky, Grampa, and was gonna ask if I could have some."
She is vehemently against smoking. She rolls her eyes when she sees me reach for the jar. But she can't look away when I tap out the dottle or run a pipe cleaner through. She is memorizing me without knowing that she is memorizing me.
I've been there myself. I was 6 once, so I know: though I've never been on this end of the memory till just now.
