Richard Keith Grondin, February 8, 1923 - September 4, 2017

I originally posted this story on January 7, 2013, when my grandfather was still alive. He passed on September 4, 2017.  After he passed I decided to rewrite it a bit and share it at his funeral.  Many have requested that I post this rewritten version, so here you go.  

*Please forgive my prolific use of punctuation, as this was written for me to read out loud. 

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Picture a large woodshed, at night in winter. It is illuminated from within and you can see, in the snow just outside, a well-worn path leading to a house.  The shed is stacked deep with logs, ready for the season at hand.

This is the entrance to my grandfather's woodshed.  I was mesmerized by this scene one night, right around Christmas a few years ago when I first wrote this. Many of you may recognize most of this story, but I felt it appropriate to share today.

….

What struck me that night, about that stash of wood, was how necessary it was, how worn the path was. How the whole thing had been constructed and filled in a labor of love; constructed out of requirement and a sense of responsibility on the part of family to help keep my grandparents warm through the winter ….(and, if anyone knew Pipi, through the summer too!). 

You see, my grandpa was a logger, and has passed along his woodcutting skills to his family.  I know and have seen the labor involved in obtaining those logs - the task of felling a tree, cleaning it up, cutting it into logs, splitting them, carrying them, stacking them.

The shed itself, and pretty much all of the surrounding buildings there at my grandparent’s house had been constructed by Pipi, his sons, his wife, and his daughters; his grandchildren….anyone able-bodied and willing to help, really.  And as Mimi and Pipi aged, grown children or grandchildren would visit each day of the week to stock the pile of wood in the garage so that my grandparents didn't have to walk the longer distance out to the shed in the cold and slippery snow.

Standing there in that moment, I realized how very aware I was of the story of that place. 

It represented so many years, so many conversations, so many hands (there's also a family joke to be had here about so many injuries…but that's not my point). 

To me, that woodshed represented servitude and responsibility. 

But more than that, it represented love…. That cold, worn path and a pile of logs made me think of love. 

Love looks like that.  It isn't always sparkly and perfect.  It is present, necessary, and often needing replenished.  It is labor.  It is rewarding.  It is a source of warmth.  It is family, and it is community. 

I got to thinking about our family as a whole, how so many people came from far and wide to return back to that place.  I stood out there staring at that woodshed thinking that someone from the outside might wonder - why do these people still come here to this house and still cut and stockpile wood year after year, even in the cold, even after having accidents, even after having arguments? What was it that we had all been taught that kept us returning?

 …. well of course we all return because we love our family…..Because our family loved us first. 

Because no matter how bad you thought you were, or what a mess you'd made, Mimi would still feed you, and ask after you - Pipi would still laugh and hug you.

They would still love to have you stay and sit by the fire a while, sharing stories and laughter.

In fact, side note - one time I asked my grandfather this question: “What is the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard?” You know what his response was? “Laughter from those I love”.

Now ….Just a short while ago, we stopped needing to stock that woodpile. For many of us, that change in life represented an end to something; maybe we were concerned somehow that the loss of that home and that woodshed …would make all of the other stuff go away too.

But it didn't go away!  Although Pipi is gone (God rest his soul), although the woodshed is no more, there is still this structure.  We all know this!  We as a family - we - still have the ability - and the willingness - to love and to serve and to laugh. And that is why I am smiling today.

It is my hope that we don't stop teaching our children what was taught to us - that loving and serving one another - is not only a requirement of this life, but it is also a privilege.  A fun one. 

And the dividends are priceless.  

That wasn’t just a pile of logs.

And I’m pretty sure Pipi knew that all along.

So…I am forever grateful - not just for the beautiful memories we all get to carry, but also for the deep lessons  - and the laughter - that we were taught by living life alongside this man and his wife.

And I am so very honored to be celebrating his life today. Thank you for being here with us. 

S

© 2017 Sarah Fisher