(The below post is something I wrote a few months ago. Just sharing it now.)
Yesterday I had a chance to do something that I’ve maybe never done before… just sit and relax and talk with some of my dad’s siblings.
My uncle reminds me simultaneously of my father and my grandfather.
Both these men have passed away.
Talking with my uncle revives my memory of these two important men.
And he knew them well. Much better than I. (Knowing someone when you’re a child is not the same as knowing a fellow adult.)
I dreamt of my Grandfather last night.
For awhile now, I’ve been pestering my uncle to take us on a family tour of the East Reserve. Show us the first farm they lived on, show us where the schoolhouse had been where great-grandpa had taught, show us where a different great-grandpa had been the postmaster, all of this. One memory bleeds into the next. I was all but ready to jump in the car and go NOW. I could imagine us all piling in and heading out there to see and reflect upon these sites.
And then I dreamt.
We were all in a van. Even the very backest of the back seats was occupied… by Grandma and Grandpa Koop.
My Grandpa Koop had always been such a quiet man.
But finally, in my dream, he had a voice.
He had opinions.
It was time for him to share his story.
The unfairness. The financial struggles. The hard times.
He wasn’t necessarily pissed off — but it was just time for him to set the record straight and let his voice be heard.
He was speaking up from the backseat as we pulled into each property, telling us stories of things we’d never known.
I awoke, and couldn’t remember the stories.
But the impression that we’d just been with Grandpa stayed with me.