Tribute to Grandpa

The Well House

Crackle crackle crunch, crackle crunch!
“Just a few more feet and we’ll be there,” my Grandpa joyfully hollered.
As Grandpa spoke I looked up at him and there he stood tall and slender, with his beautiful curly and thick silver colored hair, which he is so well known for. Grandpas face soft, kind, gentle, although masculine with a white mustache. His outdoor attire this day consisted of his favorite pair of railroad conductor coveralls, cut off at the bottom because they were too long and he couldn’t be bothered with having them hemmed; his favorite short sleeved plaid button up shirt bearing stains which told the story of years of hard work and labor; his brown work shoes worn and patched, the laces broken and retied, they worked just fine for the job he needed them to do and he liked them just they were. Today we had a job to do and he was dressed and ready to go.
The browning mixture of autumn leaves beneath my tiny feet had not been trampled on for awhile. The anticipation of getting there was killing me. I was only four but going there meant an adventure. Just as I thought I couldn’t wait any longer, we were there. My small heart raced and turned with complete excitement, like a child on Christmas morning.
“Well, come on dear, we haven’t got all day,” Grandpa gently persuaded.
I had gone there once a week since the time I was able to walk, but even still my big blue eyes were wide with awe. We were finally there, at the Well House. There it stood all-alone amongst many color changing trees and song full birds that were preparing their trip south. I loved the way the misshapen trees seemed to drape comfortably over the roof. I liked to imagine we were in the middle of Red Riding Hood’s forest and the well house was a curious little friend I would pass on my way.
Three feet by five feet, the small pale green wooden building awkwardly stood; to me it was the mansion of all mansions. Built out of plywood and pine; the six inch boards ran vertical and a corrugated plastic roof was in place to protect its contents. I grabbed the dull silver colored doorknob with both hands trying my hardest to reach.
As I opened the door Grandpa said, “Get ready.”
Quickly obeying his orders, I grabbed the skinny white nylon rope and tied it to a small mint green weight. I knew exactly what I was doing, for I had done this every week with him.
“Grandpa, it’s ready to go,” I squeaked.
Grandpa gave me a warm smile and I knew it was okay to continue. As my small, chubby hands grasped the weight, I lowered it into the 7” diameter well hole, which stood up two and a half feet out of the ground. Checking the depth of the water had always been so much fun. I especially liked it when Grandpa was there. KURPLUNK! The weight hit the water.
“Now, my dear, let the rope go until it hits the bottom. Then we’ll be able to see how much water we’ve got.”
Carefully and surely I lowered the slippery nylon rope.
“Ha ha” Grandpa chuckled, “your hair ribbon seems to have fallen out. Look, I’ll hang your ribbon here and that way we’ll always remember this day,” he said as he hung the orange yarn hair ribbon on a rusty nail that stuck awkwardly out of the wall.
The moment the weight hit the bottom, I skillfully pulled it back up, checking to see where the dry portion of the rope met the wet portion of the rope.
“Grandpa, you can count how many feets of wet rope. I am not too good at it yet.”
When Grandpa was done I jumped down from my special sitting place inside the well house near the well hole and took Grandpas hand, closing the door gently and latching it behind me. Grandpa and I began to walk back to his and Grandma’s home. As Grandpa walked, I joyfully skipped beside him still clenching his hand. We walked along a beautiful leafy path, which ran parallel to a small creek laced with wild flowers. As we would walk, we would talk. Grandpa would tell me about his life when he was my age; I would tell him what it was like to be a four-year-old. I heard stories of growing up in New Mexico, living on a farm, getting a wagon for Christmas, and Old Shag on the pond. Grandpa would point out different wild flowers and give me the name an origin of those flowers; often he’s pick them out of the ground and put them in my hair; I was just happy to be there getting so much precious one-on-one time.
Psychologists often speak of “defining moments”. Moments in your life that defines who are or who you will become. For me these “moments” with Grandpa were some of the most positive influential defining moments I could have had. Looking back now at the well house and its great importance to me, I realize what an impact it had on my life and how the well house shelters me today from an ever changing and scary world. Going to the well house always made me feel important; the special job Grandpa gave me of tying the weight to the rope gave me such pride and confidence. The quality time and the conversations Grandpa and I shared were priceless and could never be replaced. He took interest in my thoughts and valued my dreams; I know my happiness was and still is on the forefront of his mind. At times when I feel as if the world is against me and others have been unkind, I look back on those small moments with Grandpa and I know without any doubt or hesitation that I am important, loved, and valued. I am the luckiest kid in the world to have been loved so much; Grandpa my forever friend, my hero.
A couple of years ago when visiting my Grandparents, Grandpa asked me to go on a walk with him. He took me down a beautiful leafy path laced with wild flowers next to a creek. At the end of the creek was the well. Grandpa opened the door and out of his pocket he handed me the mint green weight and with a smile asked me to check the water level. I looked above my head and there on a rusty nail was my hair ribbon, still there….