My grandfather’s office was the best room in his
house. At least, to me it was. His heavy wooden desk was the centerpiece and it was a beast.The office was filled with books, papers, and good things that smelled like
education and experience.
As a child, I would sit in his chair, hands folded on the
desk or holding a pen, acting like I was writing something important just
like him. Turning to my left, the chair swiveled perfectly to the typewriter. Clackety-clack. Sometimes, I would pretend to write an urgent memo.
But, his office had a special smell. It smelled like a
life filled with love. It also exuded a smell of adventure with the African art
on the walls or the Indonesian sculptures on the bookshelves; places where
various missionary journeys had taken him and my grandmother.
The sweet smell of aging paper and typewriter ribbon
permeated the room, too. And the way the pencil jar was overflowing with pens
was a little bit of heaven that I wouldn’t know to miss until I wasn’t there to
see it anymore.
Growing up, my sisters and I would spend the night
at our grandparent’s house. Our parents would drop us off for the night, say
their goodbyes, and tell us to expect them the late morning after pancakes and
sausage and a good dose of quality time in the organic garden that sat on the
top of a hill.
But it wasn’t just the garden, wonderful food, or the
perfect company we loved most. Those were special but it was the mix of everything together simultaneously that made the magic happen. They were the epitome of slow living before it was a movement.
I think we were more excited to leave our parents than our
parents were excited to drop us off. They
were dropping us off at a place that was a combination of a bed and breakfast
and The Secret Garden.
We didn't want to go home.
The rambling, ranch-style house sat on a hilly lot
that my grandfather transformed into a garden of magazine quality. I supposed
it helped that he was the president of his local organic gardening chapter because
it meant the produce was beyond fresh.
It also meant extreme care for cultivating
his crops. He grew corn, beans, peppers, tomatoes, and squash. And he wrote about it in the monthly organic gardening bulletin.
He also had a basement shed filled with preserves
and woodworking tools.
We sisters would sneak down there and watch him: sometimes he’d sand a piece of furniture alongside our grandmother who was bringing up
preserves of sweet pickles or jams.
Grandfather knew music like it was breathing to him: it
was innate as it was life-giving. He knew how to play everything from guitar to
piano to trumpet. A trumpet sat in his office and a guitar and violin in the living room with the piano (on which he gave us lessons). There were also marimbas in the family room, an organ next to it. There was no shortage of music.
Looking back on that time, I know I didn’t ask
enough questions. But kids don't know to ask questions about what they don't know. We think time lasts longer because, for kids, it does. "We've only just begun to live," as the song goes. The days are long.
He taught me how to fish. But, I didn't know to ask him what lures to use for trout and bass and why.
I didn't ask him how he knew how to play so many
instruments or why he refused to be a music leader in the heyday of the ‘40s
music era. He could’ve traveled the world. He could’ve been a famous musician
and bandleader.
I didn't ask him about his writing. It was as easy for
him to pen a song as it was to pen a sermon. And who gave him the love for
growing organic food? Was it his father, who had migrated across America to
land in the rich soil of central California who taught him?
He lived a thousand lives for one of mine and now I
had questions.
My paternal grandfather moved in with my parents and my sisters
after my grandmother’s stroke when I was a teenager. It’s interesting to note
the cyclical nature of life. Where my parents once took me to his house to help
pick the fresh corn off the stalks and note the new coffee table he made, he
was now a permanent visitor in our home.
Ultimately, glaucoma took his vision, a stroke took his wife, but nothing could take his spirit.
The writing he once did, the piano lessons he gave me,
became memories; actions that were no longer allowable in his fragile frame. And yet, though his vision may have physically left him, his memory,
thoughts, experiences, and past journeys were all talked about at the dinner
table. We kept the past alive that way though, at the time, it just felt like normal table talk.
The stories he told over my mom’s cannelloni, the
(bad) puns and jokes he threw back and forth with my dad – none of those things changed. He didn’t let the disease change him. I just wish I could go back and
ask him more.
I tried to appreciate what I could as a child, but what did I know then?
A few years ago, in my own home, and out of the blue, I smelled his office. The decades-old files and ephemera of
occupations long past sat in deep, mahogany drawers. And that's what the aroma incited: memories.
He's been gone for over twenty years now. After moving that desk to my parent's home when he moved in, when it was my parents' turn to downsize a few years ago, I got the desk.
This vintage behemoth is now mine to use, appreciate, and hopefully churn out a few things worth reading.
There's a desktop where a typewriter, stationary, and pens once sat and I'm not sure my writing is anywhere near as important as his was, but it sure feels good to be doing what he once did at his desk.
It's like he's still here.
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