The Voice of Time

I have countless wonderful memories of Grandpa Time. They are beautiful and when I reflect on them, each one brings comfort and happiness and warmth. But in all my memories, no matter the context, I always hear Grandpa’s voice. It was low and strong and powerful, but all the while he spoke with a poetic cadence, gentleness, and despite the topic of the story, or his lesson, or the thought he was sharing his words would hug me because there was love behind each one he spoke.

He was a teacher and never missed a teachable moment. I remember being on Great Grandma’s farm in Issaquah as a child and I can still hear his beautiful voice describing each type of cow pie. Teaching about watching my step and the specific ones to look out for. At the beach, he would tell about the little crabs that scattered when I turned stones. Later, when I grew into an adult, he taught about gardening. About growing tomatoes, trimming apple trees, and when to put in corn so it would be “knee high by the Fourth of July”. I’m not the master gardener he was, but every year I put in a vegetable garden I hear his voice patiently, lovingly explaining how to dig up the soil and mix it properly and how to put it back, in order to get the best crop.

His voice was powerful and he used it to give everyone a chance, to cheer for the underdog. He used to take me to Mariners’ games in the Kingdome and he’d see a rookie pitcher, just called up, playing catch in the bullpen, usually a kid 18, 19, 20-years old and he’d get so excited. You could just see him light up. And he’d start using that powerful, low voice, and he’d shout at Lou Piniella to get that kid in the game with as much voracity as if it were his own child out there and sometimes, I swear, Lou would listen and the kid would get his chance.

Years later, when I was grown and married, we would go to Mt. Si High School football games. He loved football and high school athletes. He had a knack for finding the kids who weren’t necessarily the most athletic, but poured their souls into the game. He loved those players. I remember that year Mt. Si had a kid named Dex. A big kid, their tight end. Grandpa spotted him right away because he gave it all on every play and he didn’t get the ball much at the beginning of the season, but as the year progressed and Grandpa cheered him loudly, Dex improved and became one of the best players on the team. I can’t help but think part of that was due to him hearing Grandpa’s voice, rising above the others, loud, powerful, and reassuring.

Once, Grandma and Grandpa took Brian and Stevie and Casey and me camping at Thousand Trails. The four cousins only got to see each other once a year and I always cherished those times. We got our own room in a cabin and were talking and laughing late into the night, and we were keeping Grandpa awake, but I think he loved it because he knew we were happy. He snuck outside, around the cabin, and let his voice charge through our window and scared the heck out of us and it was great and we quieted down after that.

He was a storyteller and a poet and I remember listening to his stories about past students, or his life experiences, or people he had befriended, which was just about anyone he ever met. And I remember listening to his voice and feeling warm and safe and happy and I knew that nothing could ever go wrong as long as he kept talking.

The last time I heard Grandpa’s voice we talked about the Super Bowl and football and I told him I loved him and he told me he loved me and I always knew he did because the love he had for his family was so pure and genuine and blended within all his words. I still hear Grandpa’s voice; powerful, kind, patient, and gentle. I hear the lessons he taught, his spirited shouts, and the stories he told and I hold these dearly and I treasure his love and the happiness and safety and warmth I felt when I was with him and I know he is still with me, and will be, always.