Memory Lane of Today
Today is February 8th, 2010. It marks for me the day which commemorates the birth of my dear grandfather, so many years ago. Harry Augustus Hall, affectionately called “Baba” by his six grandchildren, would have been 81 today.
Memories of his life and person drifted back to me this morning in quiet reflections, and kicked up the dust of memory lane. His bright blue eyes, and tall stately figure… so often topped off with one of his caps from his famous collection that lined the rack on the wall of the entrance way to the old, brick house on the corner of Sunset Boulevard.
Opposite that hat rack, etched into a wooden plaque, the familiar sign read “An old Fishermen lives here, with the catch of his life.” I remember a few of those fishing trips, more often my brothers went, than myself; but there were fond memories of picnics with my grandparents – coolers filled with tasteful lunches packed with love by Nana; fishing pole and bait in hand as we attempted to learn the patient hobby.
Up the rickety stairs he’d climb to the warm, yellow kitchen, through the parlor to his worn, blue recliner. Whistling in his own cheery way, of which I have yet to find its match. Then calling on his grandkids to “help” him *grunt* his way out of the recliner when he was ready to leave. He had a witty sense of humor in his own quiet way.
He is remembered for the dimes he’d glue to safety pins, deeming them precious “diamond pins;” along with the corn seeds he’d mischievously place in precarious locations of soil – where one would least except them…leaving his mark, inducing a chuckle and smile.
The ancient apple tree that overshadowed the yard, scattering an abundance of its fruit across the grass, only to be continually raked together into pails by the strong, weathered hands. Memories of picking green beans in the garden of the same back yard; memories of the tire-horse that hung from the branches of that same apple tree; memories of fruity popsicles on those hot summer days…and that little red wagon that granted hours of riding pleasure down the bumpy side-walks of that familiar neighborhood, pulled along by none other than that dear old man.
Memories of trips to the zoo, the circus, the annual 4th of July Parade; of commuting together in the extra-long, gray Oldsmobile with its burgundy interior – always needing a little extra space in the parking lot; his flannel, button-down, or polo shirts that would only be worn provided they were equipped with a pocket in which to carry his ever-present reading glasses…the defined lump we always felt through his “Mr. Rogers-type”sweater when pressed up against him in a bear hug.
On nights we stayed over, I remember his regular glass of milk at dinner time, radio playing softly at his beside, 8 o’clock Nana brought each of us in to kiss him goodnight. I remember trips to the pond to feed to ducks, which reminds me of his notorious duck quack with which he frequently entertained his young grandchildren. Baba always carried lifesavers – peppermint, or wintergreen – always sending sparkles into our eyes when he offered them to our eager little hands.
And the walking stick – I will never forget the joy we got from Baba’s hand carved walking stick – he never seemed to mind when we borrowed it from its station in the corner of the mud room to “try it out” for a little while. Those are just the memories that came to me today…but there are many more that will stay with me forever. God blessed me with wonderful grandparents for those moldable, growing-up years – many which my siblings and I reminisce over with laughter, having shared them together.
And I will never forget the last moments I saw him. It still brings tears to my eyes to think of it…holding his hand, and kissing his warm cheek as he lay quietly in the hospital bed. It was one of the saddest times in my life – the first grandparent I had to let go of…
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But it is also the moment my mind always goes back to as feeling the most loved and cared for than I ever knew possible. Those family, church family, and friends who came to the funeral, or reached out to us in some way during that time…were there for us through it all. I cannot express in words how much every person meant to me as they streamed through the doors of the funeral home. The comforting words, notes, thoughtful actions, and hugs were cherished, and have not been forgotten.
One other thing I found that I thought I’d add to this post: Ben put this video presentation together for the funeral…
Aww, Nina, that brought tears to my eyes! What a very thoughtful tribute.