Grandpa’s Sweater.

You probably know by now that we had a massive snowstorm over the weekend. Seventy two hours of non-stop snow, accumulating to almost 4 feet of new snow on top of what had already fallen all season long. It was epic.

You also know that I have a mile of road to maintain, and that I am an anxious person by nature, so you can imagine how I felt yesterday when I started trying to clear the road as the snow was still falling. I tried using dark, inappropriate humor from turning into a nasty, salty bitch for real. It sort of worked. This morning, as I was starting on the part of the road I had not cleared at all during the storm, I began to freak out a little. The snow is so deep, it reaches over the top of my blower and there were several spots where I almost got stuck. There is no cavalry to call. I am the cavalry, so I cannot afford to fuck this up! After four hours on the tractor, I had cleared Donald’s Hill, the Spring and up to my neighbor Walt’s driveway. It looked amazing, but the forward progress was slow and it became clear I wasn’t going to get the whole road done. Dejected, I headed home to heat up lunch for the kids and refuel the tractor.

After lunch, I handed the tractor off to John, bathed myself and put on fresh clothes. The sweater I pulled out of the closet was my grandpa’s sweater. The little tag from the nursing home laundry is still in there.

I instantly felt a bit better. There are little pieces of ourselves we leave behind everywhere we go. This sweater was left behind when my grampa left for the Great Hereafter 15 years ago. And today it was at the top of my clean clothes.

My grandfather always wanted to go out to sea, but by the time he was old enough for the Dutch Navy, he had been working in the shipyards for four years already and his hearing was too damaged. He spent the rest of his life building ships he would never sail on. He would put on a suit and a fedora when he took me to the zoo. I would say: “You don’t have to dress up for the zoo, grandpa.” And he would reply: “I am taking my granddaughter out; of course I have to dress up.”

I never heard him raise his voice in anger. Not once. I never heard him speak ill of anyone. Except Nazis. He fucking hated Nazis.

As I was cancelling appointments for the week, still feeling sorry for myself about being snowed in, the children wanted to watch a documentary about George Pal. In the middle of the documentary, a song played in the background and I felt thunderstruck. It was Jan Koster’s “Havenlicht”, one of my grandpa’s favorite songs.

I heard you, grandpa. I heard you loud and clear: “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and just handle it.”

This is me, in grandpa’s sweater, standing in the road I literally had to carve out of the snow, to give you an idea what we’ve been up against.

We still have about a quarter mile left to carve before we are able to get out, but I know we’ll get it done. The only way out is through.

Thanks for visiting today, grandpa. I sure do miss you.