Some days are harder than others. My grandfather, Dean Richardson, died today (Monday).
He got in a car accident and wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. There was a lot of fog in the air Monday morning, and he turned off early on a curve and his truck went rolling into a culvert in the ditch.
I woke up Monday morning to 15 missed calls and more text messages. The first thing I read was a text from my mom telling me what happened. I called her. And then my cousin, Taya. When a person hears a grandparent passed away, they usually think that they died of old age, cancer, or another drawn out illness. Often you have time to see it coming. We didn’t.
Our family spent the day together Monday. It’s the first time in a long time that we’ve all been together.
It was a hard day.
I asked my best friend what you’re supposed to do in times like these. “There are no words,” he told me.
And there isn’t.
There is no manual for how to act or behave or what to do in these situations.
I’ll share some memories of my grandfather. This past year I decided I was going to have conversations with my grandparents because I wanted to be closer and, I can’t really find the words, but really I just wanted to have the conversations you wished you would have had with your grandparents before they’re gone. I asked how they met, how they fell in love, what their secret was, and what their favorite memories were together.
My grandmother shared how Grandpa surprised her with picnics. One day they were having a “pretend” argument on the way home. And Grandpa pulled off the road next to the lake. He pulled out a picnic basket and told Grandma about not every day having to end the same way it started. You see, they weren’t having a good day. I don't know if Grandma said that was when she knew he was the one, but I remember seeing the way they looked at each other in that moment. It was love.
I remember spilling a glass of milk and breaking the glass. “There’s no use crying over spilled milk,” Grandpa said. “There’s always another glass, and another gallon. But there’s not another Eli in the world. Why would we be mad?”
I miss Grandpa. He taught me how to shoot for the first time. I’m pretty sure he gave me my first beer. I finally developed a taste for his favorite beer during my summer vacation last month. I was really excited to share one with him.
Grandma and Grandpa had a farm growing up where we spent a lot of time. We slept overnight in the camper; shot fireworks; played in the barn we weren’t supposed to go in; rode go-carts; went mudding in Grandpa’s old truck. That’s really when I drove for the first time.
We ran in the corn field; had bon fires; watched late night movies; enjoyed Maid-Rites, because there was no other way to make a sloppy-joe, because according to Grandpa they were “made wrongs.” We played with the dogs; shot hoops in the driveway. Their long driveway. Jumped on the trampoline. Ohh, and the dice rolling. And I’ll never forget all the stories. “No shit,” was Grandpa’s line. No shit.
Grandpa always said never say goodbye. Say, “See you later.”
I’m rarely at a loss for words, but I am today. Thank you for everything. See you later Grandpa.

You have no rights to post comments