The Boathouse

My grandparents have been gone from this earth over three years now, and many of their belongings remain undisturbed.  They were borderline hoarders, so there is much to purge.  There is also much to find and reminisce over.  The process is exciting, sometimes sad, and certainly overwhelming. 

It is impossible, now, to count how much time I actually spent with my grandparents.  Holidays, of course, but I spent almost every summer with them at their house - weeks at a time even.  Those weeks were spent full of adventure in a seemingly suspended state of time for me.

This week I opened my grandfather’s boathouse to begin retrieving his old fishing boat.  I’m excited at the prospect of using it with my own children to fish, eat snacks, and talk about life - that’s what it’s for, right?  

Nothing about the boathouse has changed.  The dirt floor still looks and smells the same.  The click of the padlock still stirs a feeling of anticipation of what is behind the door, and I still had to watch that I didn’t cut my hand on the jagged hole in the metal as the chain clinked its way through.  The hinges still creak in exactly the same way, and the light switch still won’t come on when you want it to.  I glanced around out of habit looking for any potential snakes and remembered Poppy once pulling one off the wall by the tail and launching it into the woods after swinging it over his head a few times.

It was surreal. Everything was the same.  It was the same cluttered stacks of items that would be sufficient to decorate the interior of your local Cracker Barrel.  Sickles, pick axes, old fishing rods, lanterns, metal buckets, tools, and stuff I’ll never know the stories behind.  Old signs and license plates still hang on the sheet metal walls, and the very water skis I learned to ski on are still wedged into the rafters along with those hideous, orange, “U” shaped life preservers.  

I’ve been in the boathouse thousands of times, but always following the steps of my grandfather.  This time… I led, as my children followed, and in an instant felt myself transformed from an excited little kid to the role of adulthood my grandfather played.  Suddenly I was on the other side of the same scenario I have lived a thousand times.  

I was trying to accomplish a project with children, my own children, around my feet asking about everything and wanting to play with anything.  My grandfather didn’t get in a hurry as he worked with us around.  He spent his time walking back and forth to retrieve tools and parts… I’ve concluded that that is the time he spent thinking about the task at hand.  At least I assume he did - that’s what I did.  I watched my own children tramp the same ground I tramped.  I watched them explore and ask questions about the same items I used to ask about.  I never thought about what might be going through my grandfathers mind, until now.

I think it was appreciation.  I think it must have been appreciation for life and family.  Appreciation for the ability to spend time with us.  Appreciation for time itself.  I don’t know if I will ever understand how he kept frustration levels in check, but I think I’m starting to get a clue.  I think those times he had me look for things that may or may not exist where diversions to allow him to do part of the task for which he didn’t need “kid help” - that’s what I did with my own kids.  I think the expected coffee breaks he would take throughout a project gave him time to think on a problem while I sat and enjoyed just being there with him.  I think the times an anticipated plan changed suddenly with him letting me help conclude the outcome was a technique to avoid the disappointment that things weren’t going as planned.  Again, something I did with my own just the other day while trying to fix flat tires on the boat trailer.  

I believe I felt what he felt when he engaged me, as I engaged my own.  I believe God gave me a gift to be able to get just a little glimpse into the perspective of my grandfather, and recognize for myself just a little more personal significance of my own life.  

Regarding such experiences, my mother often says “and the beat goes on”. She is so correct.  Children learn what they live, and I am now not only executing what I’ve learned, but being schooled once again by the impact of my Grandfather.

I miss them both so much, but the beat does go on.