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

Maybe it was February. The trees high above the trail circled slowly, creaking against a wind we could only hear. Leaves crunching underfoot, we meandered off the trail as we always teach our children to do, silent in the strange warm weather. 

Ice at the edge of the river served as evidence that it was still winter. I placed my hand on the moss and it was dry. Never trust your first impression. I wanted to say that much to my daughter, but only managed a silent smile as I watched her mimic my experiment. 

She stood up and dragged her walking stick behind her, intentionally gouging the earth to see where she’d been. Eight years old and she had only just begun to understand the depth of her breath, the power of her mind.

I wanted that moss to be soft, yet my memory had betrayed me. I kicked over a decayed stump, searching for life in the dark soil beneath it. The sun heated my back as I bent over the dark space I'd created, but still I found nothing. “Lies!” I thought, perhaps out loud. 

But it was only February and I still couldn’t speak. 

© 2016 Sarah Fisher

Solitude is a beast if you opt to entertain it without any house rules. 

Limitation is what we sell ourselves when we don’t want to work on the ugly things.

If you can't climb out, build a ladder.


© 2016 Sarah Fisher

I picture February as dark and empty and a little lower than the rest of the months. It has a hill and one tree leaning to the west without leaves, with bark that is the darkest wet grey. It lives in my mind as the cold place pressing against the house I grew up in, somewhat mingled with Faulkner, soup and my little sister.

Every winter memory I have is sharper, blazing with color or sound. I see Winter as God's highlighter. He says "be still and watch."

See that tree? Did you know how intricately its branches grow? Here's some snow. See it now?

Do you hear that bird in the summer? Its much clearer and louder in the winter when the rest of the birds are gone.

That river. Did you know that this is the part that sits still enough to freeze? And that this part jumps up to meet the trees? Here's some ice. Do you see it now?

Walk outside in the muted landscape. Every noise is clearer, and silence is thicker.

Listen to me.

Sunshine on the snow and ice are almost blinding. And a grey day forces you to dream.

Do you see the simple power? Frozen water can cause a city to stand still or shatter a tree.

A child's happiness, a neighbor's creativity, the generosity of someone with a shovel and a heart - all highlighted.

And I am grateful.

Origin of GRATEFUL

obsolete grate pleasing, thankful, from Latin gratus — more at grace

© 2013 Sarah Fisher

As if to make a mockery of my last post (I know, its been a long time), my son has launched a new Anti-Bedtime Campaign.

I want to spend time with my kids as they snuggle down, yes.  I want to make sure their routine is consistent and yadda yadda.  What I DONT want is what is currently happening.  The boy has decided that lying is the best way out of the situation.  In the past week, here are his excuses for getting out of bed (not uncommon, I know...except when he gets creative- then I worry a little).

"I have to go potty."

"Sissy needs me."

"I have to get my gun."

"My leg is broken."

"I was thinking about that noise and the fish was green."

"My foot is broken. Sissy stomped it with her car."

"There's a dinosaur in the washing machine."

"My bed is wet." (an all-time favorite because Mommy is a sucker and checks every time)

"My pee-pee is broken."

"I have a problem." (no, mommy does. His name starts with W)

"I need a popsicle."

"The girl at the library told me the tree was hers."

"I have to poop." (never true)

"My elbow is broken."

"I have itches."

"Sissy told me to get my gun." (sissy is fast asleep by now)

"I need to nurse."

"My toe is broken."

"I need to hug Daddy."

"I am going to drive Daddy's car out of here."

Admittedly, this is totally our fault. He's never liked sleep, always fought it, and especially hates being alone for it.  So over the past two and a half years, we've let him sleep in our bed, in his sister's bed, the couch....hey, he's sleeping.

And for those of you out there that possess the magic potion (or discipline...whatever), to make your kids respect bedtime and stay asleep in their own beds, don't judge. There's probably another area of parenting that you're completely sucky at, so let's just call it even.  I am NOT good at bedtime.

I put up with about five to ten or thirty excuses from him and have tried everything short of the "take them for a drive" thing to get him to fall asleep.  But in the end, he always wins.  Even if I do get him to sleep in his own bed, he only stays there until he rolls over at 3am to find me missing.  Then he runs into my bedroom and crawls in our bed, pushes and kicks until I finally give up my pillow, slide out of bed, and go to his room to sleep. 

That bed is really uncomfortable.




© 2013 Sarah Fisher

"I do it."

I was pondering holding my children, how it slows down as they grow, how they need me less and less as they move into being their own person.  It doesn't make me sad, really. I suppose one day I will wax nostalgic and miss it, but right now I feel like its welcome; it encourages me to see that they can do a little bit more on their own each day.  "I do it" is not a phrase that I hate to hear.  I like it.  It means confidence and drive. 

I want my daughter to do certain things on her own now, and encourage it, and sometimes see her resisting, like she knows once she does it on her own, that I will stop doing it for her for good.  She's an opportunist, really.  Always has been.  I remember her wanting me to feed her long after she learned to use a spoon on her own.  She'd sit there like a little bird with her mouth agape, waiting for me to pick up the spoon, and I often did, out of habit.  I still find myself doing things for her that I know she needs to work on (tying shoes for instance), sometimes out of habit, but sometimes just for the sake of convenience.  To allow my kids to do more on their own requires more patience on my part.  And more time.  Often I lack both.

But the one thing I don't rush through, that I don't insist they do alone, is bedtime.  I still snuggle and hold them until they are almost asleep.  Because I feel like the world can be pretty big and so can a dark room after a long day, so why wouldn't I offer that comfort to get them to sleep better, to chase away the dreams?  Why should they feel that they have to face the dark alone?  They are two and five.

I've had people tell me I'm "making it harder" on myself, that I'm "spoiling them", that I'm "wasting time".  None of their advice passes the Rocking Chair Test.  When I'm seventy and rocking on my porch, will I ponder my younger days and wish I'd spent less time putting my children to bed?  Wish I'd spent less time holding them?  How about the fact that bedtime is literally the largest chunk of time that I dedicate to praying with, for, and over my children?  Will I wish I'd spent less time doing THAT?

So Madi doesn't need me to rock her to sleep anymore.   She can and will get ready for bed alone and crawls in willingly.  But she still waits for me to put her brother to sleep, and quietly asks me to snuggle her when I come in to say goodnight.  So I crawl into her bed, hold her hand, and we close our eyes and tell each other about the colors we see in the darkness of our eyelids.  And I'm pretty sure that when I'm seventy two or some odd number, I will dream of those moments and smile and feel that maybe I did do some things right. 




© 2013 Sarah Fisher

And the award goes to...

I returned library books ON TIME today!  I’d like to congratulate myself for that.  Somehow I manage to pay fines on a quarterly basis there. I tell Jason it’s my “donation to literacy”.  It’s actually my lack of time management skills mashed up with my disorganized car, house, kids rooms, and other places these sticky fat little board books wiggle their way into.  He knows that, by the way, but he’s pretty nice and doesn’t ask questions. (They don’t charge for late books either, the fines are for destruction of library materials. Enter William.) 

Other major accomplishments this week:

1. Finding William in Meijer after frantically yelling his name at the top of my lungs for three minutes and suppressing  a panic attack. 
2. Cleaning all of the half-used lollipops out of the car seats (yes, I’m that mom, I bribe my kids in the car to make them shut up for a few minutes.  But the lollipops are organic fruit juice ones, so I totally try to justify it in my head).
3. Folding half of the laundry I intended to remove from the dryer three days ago.
4. Scrubbing two out of three toilets. My own bathroom is the last place I clean simply because I cannot hear the kids killing each other from that location in the house, so I don’t like to spend a lot of time there.
5. Reconstructed cardboard house that fell down.  I remembered how it went together!  This isn’t rocket science, but after not sleeping for…five years…and trying to do it with a screaming two year old between your legs – not so easy.  (Also in that same moment realized maybe I should postpone the whole going-back-to-school thing....)
6. Walked outside with my kids.  It’s really cold, so this is listed as an accomplishment.

This list is harder than I expected.  I give myself extra points for keeping two kids alive, staying married, and managing a shower almost every day.

I know this isn't terribly enlightening or exciting, just another day in the current state of my life.  But lets be real;  I can't be sentimental, deep and full of warm fuzzies all the time.  I have a two year old.

 

 

© 2013 Sarah Fisher