Memories Of My Grandfather

Grandma and Grandpa are probably some of the most amazing people in the world. I am really blessed to be so close with grandma and grandpa. Both distance wise and relationship wise. I don’t even know where to start. Between all the cooking lessons, rock shows, R.V. shows, birthdays, track meets, concerts, holidays, dinners, snakes, shopping trips and so on I have a lot of ground to cover in not a lot of time. I’ll start with the cooking lessons.

Over 300 people lined up at the door of an oratory waiting to pay their respects. Regardless if they knew my grandpa or not it’s as if people felt some sort of obligation, like it’s the right thing to do to mourn over the loss of someone they may or may not have known. It was late January in the small town of Hastey, Minnesota, the ground was as frozen as the hearts of those mourning over the loss of my grandpa. When I found out my grandpa had passed away the piercing feeling in my gut was as harsh as the morbid,Minnesota winter.Majority of people there were nicely dressed in black, with black under their eyes as an accent because nothing but tears have seen those eyes in days.

One of my fondest memories of my dad was when I was young perhaps 10. Dad had stopped drinking and still had the love of dogs and hunting. Each day he would work and come in looking like he had rebuilt the entire stadium of McCarther field. Big work boots, jeans that hung down to his tail, white working shirt, and a beginning bulging belly from too many steaks and too many half gallons of ice cream. It was not uncommon for we older girls to hear his beat up Chevy coming down the road from a block or two away and whoever was there, would have a large glass of tea with ice waiting by the time he drove into the drive way.

I knew I had support from my family. Especially my grandfather. He was everything to me. He was very smart and was very wise with everything he said. My family has always been there. One day my grandfather made sure I knew. He was and always will be my lifeline.

“I can’t believe that’s true!” I exclaimed, my laughter echoing through the room. My grandpa and I had been chatting on the phone for the past half an hour. You would imagine a man his age would be boring and dull. However, he was quite the joker. At least with me, since I was, of course, his favorite granddaughter.

My first memories of God were when I first came to America at the age of ten. Back then, I did not know who or what God is. My mother was coming to the U.S. to do scientific research, and our family didn’t know anyone or have any friends. However, there was a Chinese church where a lot of internationals like us can come together and find friendship, build personal connections, and worship a God that was a very new concept to many of us. That was the place where I first learned about God. Initially, I had a lot of questions about the very existence of God, because in my young mind, I could not grasp the concept of something that I could not physically sense. Gradually, I began to accept the notion that God is what God is and that it is something that we could feel in our hearts, something spiritual.

Some of my favorite childhood memories are of my grandfather and me. One could say that we had a tradition. Often, he would pick me up from gymnastics and go through the drive through of McDonald’s to get me a chocolate shake. And during the trip to his house, we would talk about our day and the exciting things that had occurred. Although we talked about many different things on our way to his house, we always sang “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”. I remember looking out the windows while we sang and admired the beauty of the night. Coming up to the big red barn I knew that we were almost there. My grandparents lived near Saint Peter, Minnesota on Lake Washington. And every night after eating dinner, we would make a fire, look out upon the

Ancestors completely shape, determine and mold their descendants’ lives. Family values are rooted deeply in how a person is raised. Although I never met my great-grandfather, the way he lived directly affects my life. In Little Rock, Arkansas in 1924, J.C. (Jake) Red was born. He was number ten of eleven sons born to the Red family. After his younger brother, W.E. (Buck), was born, his father would leave them to start a new family, across town. He and his brothers would be raised by a single mother, during the Great Depression. To say he was poor, is putting it mildly. Dirt poor is a term that better describes the way my great-grandfather was raised. Jake was smart, athletic, and willing to work hard. Everyone describes my great-grandfather as the cornerstone of my family. His life was proof that opportunities are endless, if hard work and determination remain the central focus. Although, I never got to meet or know him, I have learned he was a very respected and revered man.

All my relatives were there my aunts, uncles, and cousins were there, however the only relatives I remember seeing were relatives who are related to my grandfather. My relatives were in a formal white shirt, black dress shoes, black jacket, and a tie, to show respect for the dead. Looking at their faces, it made me depressed and sorrowful, especially to my dad and uncles, however being the children of my grandfather wasn’t the only reason, it’s mainly all the memories that they spent together just withered away by death himself. On the other hand, I wasn’t as miserable as the rest of my relatives, it felt as though I was just there, standing there asking myself ‘why am I not in remorse similar to the rest of my relatives?’ the only answer I could come up with at the time was not knowing my grandfather similar to my relatives. When I was younger, I and my grandfather was still among the living I could only remember one picture of

The last time I saw my grandfather in person was summer of 2015. He was visiting our family in the US. I remember taking him to Washington D.C and we walked the whole day to all the museums and monuments. I was exhausted at the end of the day and I was surprised that he was able to keep up at age 72. Even about a month before he left, talking to him on video chat did not give me any indication that he was going away anytime soon. What’s remarkable about death is that it can come so suddenly. Let alone for others, even he probably did not expect his death to come so suddenly. For him, death means that he will go somewhere else depending on what his beliefs are. But for me, death of my grandparent is very strange. Normally when I go back to China, I would stay at his place. He is always around to handle the chores around the house and making demands of others because of his teaching background and stubborn personality. But this time when I came back, it wasn’t the same. The subconscious expectation I had was completely shattered. I no longer hear that loud shouting noise in the background, or that intellectual-toned conversation with his students. I realized that I took for granted to what has been there for a long time, and when I lost it, I felt extremely depressed.

Like a nonfiction story-book, my grandfather enlightens me with the adventures from his life and provides a valuable lesson through each telling. Quite fondly I remember him saying, “To learn is to remember, to forget is to lose”. There has always been one story, of which my grandpa told me, that has stuck with me and always reminds me to be fortunate that I do not endure the great hardships that so many face.

Most memories aren’t forever. Some you forget right off the bat. Kind of like when you forget someone’s name right after they told you. Yet, there are some that seem to last forever. Some seem like you can never forget them, and you will remember them until you’re old and grey. That is how the memories of my grandmother are for me.

“I have to go or i’ll miss the bus,” I say to my grandpa. “Okay good luck at your game,” he says, “I love you.” The last words my grandpa would ever say to me. As I left his home to catch the basketball bus.

When we were together we were invincible, us against the world. I’d look up to him, not only because he was 6’4, but because he was my grandpa. I have clear memories of him picking me up from school, playing old school reggae music during our adventurous car rides. We’d always sing along to our favorites, sometimes turn the music up so loud the people in the cars next to us could hear it. When I would visit his apartment, the familiar smell of drywall and pennies would fill the air. It was my hideaway, my home away from home. My grandpa collected pennies in water jugs. He would say that one day they’d be worth more than just pennies. I loved it there, not only because he had a freezer filled with many flavors of ice cream to which he would often say to me “you can have all you can eat” but because it was our time to bond. For five years it was my mom, my dad, and my grandpa helping me to grow. Those are my favorite people, my role models. Being around my grandpa brought me such comfort and joy.

I don't remember much from my childhood. Little things. Bits. Pieces. Never the full thing. Simply flashes in the endless pool that we humans call time. The few memories that I do fully remember are nowhere near happy. I do have happy memoirs they are there somewhere, in the back, behind a door, locked in a box never to be seen aging. I didn't put them there by choice, it's like my mind is set to keep me on my toes. To constantly remind me that the world is cruel and that the only person looking out for you is you. It’s wrong because I’m wrong.