Starting Over

    I worked at the orange grove one last season following my grandfather’s death, so my grandmother would not lose the harvest. After the season ended, Grandma sold the orchard and moved into her daughter's home in Abilene, Texas.


    I miss the wonderful talks Grandpa and I used to have after a long day in the groves. When I was a young child he would tell me stories about the first time he met Grandma, and how he knew she would be his wife someday. He would also listen intently to anything I wanted to talk about, which made me feel so important. Yes, Grandpa was a great listener.


    One late afternoon, I got back to the house expecting to see him there. I waited in the kitchen with my grandmother; sniffing all those fragrant aromas of the evening's supper. Nothing beats the smell of her homemade bread baking in the oven. After some time passed by, I decided to check back in the groves to see if Grandpa needed help with his chores so he could get back home to supper. What I found was my beloved grandfather lying on the ground under the grove's oldest orange tree. He was so still, yet his face looked peaceful. I knew before I even approached him that he had passed away.


    I think I sat there for nearly an hour thinking of my life growing up with my grandpa and how he had always been my hero. My parents were both killed when their train derailed as they were coming back from Idaho. Mom’s mother who was widowed, had been very ill. My mother took care or her while Dad helped around with the farming chores. I stayed with my Dad’s parents; my beloved grandparents, while my folks took on these duties. My parents did not want me going with them just in case Grandma Mae did not pull through her bout with pneumonia. She did manage to live several more years, however, she was never quite healthy.


    I prayed over the body that I cradled in my arms. I could not see his face anymore because the tears blocked out my vision. I heard Grandma frantically ringing the dinner bell on the back porch. How could I tell her that the love of her life died?


    I was the last to leave the place where I had lived since I was a six-year-old orphan. All I had left from Grandpa, besides his wisdom, was a small case filled with his fine carving tools, tied shut with some heavy duty tape. Grandpa was a talented, serpentine style carpenter. He was not able to sell his goods when the Depression hit. However, he did carve some beautiful occasional tables for Grandma, with an attention to detail that I admired. Sadly, he just let that craft fall by the wayside while he concentrated on the business that kept food on the table; the orchard that Grandma inherited. He taught me carpentry at a very early age making me realize that I had a real passion for the trade. Grandpa always wished me to be a great carpenter and to sell beautiful pieces someday.


    Today, I stroll on this road, wearing this weathered coat and hat, gazing  forward. I choose to walk several miles, carrying my worn out case and just breathing in the late autumn air. I face northward at the lonesome road ahead, far beyond the familiar orchards. The brownish fields of scattered sagebrush and sporadic tattered fences decorate the side of the highway. The familiar scenes and scents are soon to be behind me.


    I know that a bus will come along in an hour or so; it always comes when it's good and ready. Folks in these parts don't mind waiting. I am in no particular hurry to get to the big city; I will get there when time allows. I hope to work for a furniture maker when I arrive. I will show him the fine carving I can do, thanks to Grandpa.

    My eyes started to mist, making the road harder to see. Suddenly a feeling of joy flooded my heart as I thought to myself, he would want me to start over and to be successful in the craft he loved so much.

I will make him proud.

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