Talluluh's Hero

So, it's been a few days since I've posted, and this one is a little more emotional than my past posts.  But I just watched the Ram Farmer Commerical from the Super Bowl.  I know I'm behind.  But I went to bed at 9:00 p.m. that night because I am old and lame.  And I'm fine with that.  So I watched it tonight and I cried.  Gosh.  That whole commercial took me back years. To farming with my Gramps.  That was one of my favorite past times.  I loved that man.  Idolized that man.  He was my hero.  It's been four years since he died, and I still miss him every day.  So tonight, I'm sharing a few writings that I penned in high school.  Thanks for reading.  Love ya'll.

If we could only watch ourselves while we are here today –

If we could only keep ourselves from wandering astray

If we could only do some good and make folks like us too –

Then maybe there would come a time when we will live anew.

For this is just a sort of test

A proving ground just.

And if we stand the ordeal now –

We’ll be worthy of his trust.

-Loren W. Schneider (Gramps)

Gramps 1 (Read at his funeral in 2008)

My grandfather is not weak. His body has diminished in both stature and posture.  His face is worn and thin, his arms are small and frail.  His legs are swollen from poor circulation, and some days, walking is a challenge.  If you listen to him speak for awhile, it may appear that even his mind is feeble, but he is not weak.  I have seen his strength.  I can see it, even now at the age of ninety-three, when he is sitting in his chair, asleep.  My grandfather has strength of spirit.  This is the same strength that brought him through the death of his father, the Depression, the Second World War.  When he is gone, people may forget his name.  They may forget the kind, small-town man who never knew a stranger.  They may forget the deeds he has done.  But we will not forget.  We cannot forget, because the strength that my grandfather exhibits has been subtly passed to each of us through his stories, his hugs, and his wisdom.

Sometimes, he forgets things, but he never forgets my name, or my voice, or his pride in what his grandchildren have become. More and more lately, he likes to talk of the past.  I love to hear the stories he tells of his childhood, his time in Saipan, the story of how he met my grandmother.  When I was young, I loved to spend time with him on the farm, feeding the cows, hauling hay, tuning up an old tractor.  He always kept toys in the glove box of the old Ford, for his grandchildren, for me.  He exuded strength then, both physical and spiritual.  I knew that to gain the love and respect of this great man meant more than any treasure. 

I have gained from him more than just my name.  I inherited his stubborn will.  That bull-headedness that caused him to keep driving long after the doctors told him he couldn’t.  I inherited his child-like playfulness. This same playfulness made him ages younger than he was, romping around on the floor in a Garfield mask, making us laugh.  I inherited his love of baseball. This same love made him one of Fargo’s great players, and a fan of the Babe.  One day, I hope that people will say that I am strong like him, that my faith is deep like his.  These are the things I hope to acquire, rather than inherit.

My grandfather gives great advice.  He is wise, as old men often are, but there is something more to his wisdom, something hard to explain.  He uses few words, and often speaks in metaphors.  Once, when talking about the children I teach he said, “Here’s something you can tell them when they get ornery, and everyone gets ornery,” he paused, “Tell them, it’s okay to make a mistake, but when you grow up, you have to be man enough to correct it.” These are the words I take to heart.

And someday, my children will ask me about the white-haired man in the pictures from my childhood.  I will smile and say, “That was Gramps.” The rest of the story, I hope they will learn through my life, through the lives of their grandfather (my father), and through their aunt.  This is not a story that can be told, it is a story that has to be lived.

Gramps 2 (written in 2002)

Today after school I crossed the rusty cattle guard to the back pasture, and walked down the worn trail to my Gramps’ old red Ford. He was fixing fence, one that had been there since I can remember.  The posts were made of thick tree branches, worn by wind and rain and sun.  The barb wire was loose and rusty.  He apologized for missing my State Tournament softball games and explained that he had cow trouble on the farm.  Gramps was always one of my biggest fans.  We talked about the weather and Grandma.  She was cross with him for the worn out shirt he keeps around and was wearing.  At this point I looked down at his worn boots that I had seen him remove in his chair in the dining room, at his faded and dirty blue jeans, at his threadbare shirt with a hole in each arm from wrist to elbow.  I saw his leathery skin and light blue eyes, his brown farm hat white hair askew underneath.  We talked about school and the crops.  We talked about softball.  We were discussing the current loss at the State Tournament when he said, “Sometimes, life deals you some beatin’s.  You want to be able to take a beatin’ without being mad.  It builds character.”  This was the kind of advice Gramps always gave, and it always meant so much that he would share his wisdom with me.     

Untitled I

By Loren W. Schneider (Gramps)

Circa 1933

There is a land somewhere in the world I know

That is calling me to its soil.

I know not where it is nor what it is there for,

But it needs my skill and toil.

It may be a land so far away

That I could not reach it if I tried

Until my life was badly worn;

Or it may be the land

On which my soul was born.