I Remember my Grandfather..

 I was asked to write to the prompt - “I remember my grandfather.” The timing uncanny, as if the universe was conspiring to consolidate a train of thought needed the most, that had been locked far away in long term memory, surfacing in small snippets, in synchronicities unplanned, in dreams unrealized, in needs unmet. “Write to the edge, no editing, just see what surfaces.” I did and here is what surfaced. I’ll edit endlessly from here, but I share candidly for those connections who knew him, my Pop Pop Courtie, as all of these words will resonate, and for anyone else that needs to prompt the memory of their grandfather. Here is your reminder from the universe.

Courtland Michener

I remember my grandfather… in a hug, he gave the best ones.

He had four fingers on one hand, a machinery injury childhood folklore is made of, but it didn’t impact his firm hold, only made it stronger, more mystical, authentically his.

I remember him in a cup of tea, and a joke from the end of the dining room table, and each time a tractor passes by. In every corn field. In every diner where breakfast is served. In storytelling.

I remember him in every sarcastic joke and his boyish grin. He held the quickest wit.

He is in a base guitar, and a band, the jitter bug and my love for dancing.

He is in a chorus and all music.

He is in every big white laundry room farm sink, and large back deck for iced tea, and dog, and work boots and landscaping in front of bay windows, in long driveways.

I remember him in the vast yard on the hill by their sign - Quaker Acres - his tall, lanky framed silhouette moving through the yard, by the barn.

I remember him in work, hard work, family work, farm work, yard work, God’s work.

I remember him pulling the tin squares out of the barn to the yard, those that would transform to baseball bases, as the vast yard turned into the diamond, set by the cornfield, as the fireflies danced, and so too did our childhood bliss, as even the adults would join in on the game.

I remember my grandfather in every gas tank and the smell of gasoline.

I remember him in every willow tree. In every breezeway, holiday, and fireplace conversation surrounded by family. At every snack table.

I remember him as pure, protective, joyous, hilarious. My grandfather was love, gentle, patient, kind, strong love.

I remember my grandfather, each time someone says my name, his Court, Courtie, and Courtland.

I remember how he loved the picture I made, that I gave to him as he laid sick in the bed. I remember how I wanted to mend him. I remember the night we rang in a new year and Dad came home late, alone. I remember how the door sounded closing, announcing his leaving. My Dad lost his best friend and I would never be able to fix it. I remembered writing then and my childhood words still sit in the journal, waiting to be revisited. This is the day there would only be the remembering. I remember how I couldn’t breathe at the thought of no more Pop Pop hugs, no more grandfathers. I remembered, by calling to me his memory, that even then, I was writing to survive.

He was salt of the earth he tended so well. He was known by all, his gregarious energy drawing in everyone he ever met, one of the many gifts he passed to my father. He was loved by all. I remember my grandfather… and am thankful my writing journey had me pull him from the constellation of my memory this week, perhaps when I needed him the most.