When I was in the operating room getting ready to deliver Harley Belle, a nurse, in a valiant effort to distract me, asked what I was going to name my soon to arrive baby girl. I told the nurse her name would be Harley. The kind nurse then asked me where I came up with such a unique name. I explained that it was my grandfather’s name, and that, boy or girl, this baby would be called Harley. To further ease my nerves, she continued her diverting chatter and asked me about my grandfather. She said, “You must think a lot of this gentleman if you are going to name your child after him.” Without hesitation, I replied that my grandpa was the most loyal and hardworking person I knew and that if this little girl had those same attributes, she would do just fine in life. The nurse wholeheartedly agreed.
For the second summer in a row I lost a grandfather. On
August 5, 2016 my grandpa, Harley Gilleland died. I witnessed the suffering and
humility that death brought to a man whom I assumed was larger than life. I am again comforted in the knowledge that
families are forever and I will see him again.
I was fortunate enough to be in his company during the last few weeks of
his life. I had to return home to Virginia a few days before his passing and it
was devastating to have to leave. I knew
I would never see him again in this life. Of course, in his permanently logical
manner he expressed to me his desire that I not return for the funeral. I can still hear his gruff voice saying, “You
don’t come back for a funeral, Lis. It’s just too much, Hon. You go home and be
with Scott. We’ll be fine.” Trying my best to control my emotions I
kissed him on the forehead and choking back my sobs I told him I loved him as I
rushed out of the hospital room. My only
solace was in knowing he would soon be out of pain.
The morning he died I woke up early and looked out of my
window to the small rose garden in my front yard. It was in shambles, having been neglected
most of the summer while our family traveled.
I knew grandpa’s roses would never be so unkempt. The phone call came as I sat shamefully
staring at my weed ridden garden. I knew in that moment all I could do to honor
my grandfather, the exemplary gardener, was to get to work. I pulled on my boots and spent the duration of
the day trying to salvage my uncared for roses. I felt he was near me the whole time, which is
probably why I chose to keep working long after my hands and back were
unbearably sore.
My grandfather’s yard and garden is famous in our small
town. He and grandma never shied away
from a moment of hardwork. Their home
and yard was always in a state of flawlessness.
My grandfather was a perfectionist, unlike any I have ever known. In fact, when I got my first car I used to
take it to grandpa’s house to wash it. My excuse was that his driveway was so
much bigger than our own. But, the
reality was, I knew grandpa would never be able to tolerate how I was washing
my car and would soon take over the task. Within a few hours, he would have my
car looking show room ready with a fresh coat of wax and air in all the
tires. This transformation would take
place all while I watched from the comfort of the garage, drinking my pop and
eating the cookies that grandma would inevitably provide when anyone came
around.
My first real memories of my grandpa were when I was in the
first grade. My parents and I were living
in Nevada where my dad was working for a gold mine. They sent me to Colorado for a few weeks that
summer and the summer after that, before we moved back to Colorado permanently. Grandma and Grandpa had an enormous bed, at
least it seemed enormous to me. It was certainly
big enough for all three of us to sleep in each night comfortably. I remember thinking if I ever got a bed this
big I will have all I ever wanted out of life.
But before we crawled into bed at night Grandpa and Grandma always kneeled
down beside it and grandpa would pray. I
would sneak a peek from under my bowed head to watch grandpa from across the king-sized
chasm. It was fascinating to watch this
tough man bow his head and pray each night. He would express his gratitude for
what he had been given and pray for me and other members of our family. In
those sweet moments, as a five year old girl, he taught me how to talk to God,
express gratitude and humbly ask for His divine guidance and protection. I have
seldom missed a nightly prayer since those days. The gift of prayer has been one of the most
powerful lessons I could have ever learned in this life and it came from the
example of my grandfather. After prayers,
the three of us would pile into bed and watch Johnny Carson or Benny Hill. I
would fall asleep with the comfort of grandpa’s deep laugh and the smell of his
after shave coming from the pillow next to mine.
Some of my fondest memories were being in the mountains with
him. He would tell us ghost stories or accounts
of his boyhood as we sat around the campfire at night. All the grandkids would
listen in complete silence, because he was the strongest, bravest man we knew
and we adored him. We would hike around
the mountains surrounding the cabin and grandpa would encourage me to pick up
and squeeze the animal droppings between my chubby fingers to discern whether the
scat was fresh or not. Of course, I was
assured that this was for our safety, or to help in the tracking process when
it was hunting season. I loved to drive
in Grandma and Grandpa’s truck up to the mountains. Grandpa always played Julio Iglesias in the
cassette player and he would sing along with a Spanish accent. His favorite trick was pretending the brakes
were out in the car. Although, I had been a victim of the joke repeatedly, I
was continually terrified as we rounded each bend of the treacherously steep
mountain pass. Each time he convinced me
that this occasion was the real deal, until Grandma would finally say, “Harley
that’s enough!” and grandpa would look at me smiling and say, “Did I scare ya
Lis?” He even tried this trick once when
I was on the motorcycle with him. I was
sitting in front of him and we were riding down to the river. We were traveling down a small hill with a
large rock at the bottom. Suddenly, Grandpa
claimed he had lost his brakes and complete control of the motorcycle. We were gaining speed and heading straight
for the boulder and what would ultimately be our demise. I was screaming and he
was yelling that this was the end. I did
what any 7 year old would do when faced with certain death, I grabbed the
handle bars and yanked them as hard as I could away from that rock and then attempted
to jump off the motorcycle. Well, this
choice almost caused us both to crash and in a miraculous maneuver Grandpa
managed to keep the bike upright and me safely on board. However, I was
promptly removed from said bike and given a swift spanking and lecture for
grabbing the handle bars. This
punishment was followed immediately, by an almost painful bear hug and an apology
for scaring me so badly. History
repeated itself almost thirty years later when riding an ATV with Atley. Grandpa and Grandma were on the four-wheeler
behind us. I attempted one of Grandpa’s old tricks. Atley got nervous and yanked
the handle bars of our ATV, almost causing us to careen down the side of the
mountain. I promptly removed him and
told him he had to walk back. I was furious and terrified. Grandpa and Grandma
put Atley on board with them and Grandpa told me I was way too hard on the boy. I decided not to remind him of the motorcycle
spanking of ’85.
When my parents moved to Bolivia, Grandma and Grandpa
graciously let me move all my stuff into their house so I still had “my room”
to come home to when I visited from college.
Every time I flew home Grandma and Grandpa were always there waiting to
pick me up. I think they arrived at the
airport hours before my plane was supposed to arrive and because it was
pre-9/11, grandpa would be at the very top of the jet way peering anxiously
through the crowd. When he saw me he always grabbed my bag and then I was once
again gathered into that tight bear hug. I would take a deep breath of his aftershave
and feel the comfort of finally being home again.
I could write pages and pages of a life time of memories
with my grandpa, like the way Grandma and Grandpa visited early every Christmas
morning to see what Santa brought. I
could talk about how Grandpa was always ready with a jacket for me when I
looked cold or that scratchy army blanket when the jacket wasn’t quite enough
to warm me up. I could reminisce about
how he was always ready with a handkerchief or a package of Smarties at the
most opportune times or the moment he caught me making out with my boyfriend in
front of his house. I could pen all
those trips to the mountains to cut and haul wood in the fall, the sound and
smell of grandpa’s saw and the methodical way we all worked as a family to fill
the trucks with firewood for the winter. I could write about the time we all went to
Las Vegas and I made Grandma and Grandpa walk miles and miles or the time they
came to visit me in Atlanta and their favorite part of the trip was the golf
cart ride around the pond near our house, or their trip to Tucson to visit me when
we were caught up in a very un-Arizona-like torrential rain storm.
My most precious memories are the times I saw tears in his
kind strong eyes. They appeared once on the day I got married, another time
after I sang in church three summers ago. He grabbed me on my way back to our
pew and with tears in his aging eyes told me he loved me. And finally those tears appeared again one
night when we were gathered around the campfire. He expressed how much he
wished my oldest cousin Tia could be there with us after she had passed
away. He loved us and managed to show
us, not through words but by his loyalty to our family. Whether we were right
or wrong, he was always on our side. He
loved my grandma and set an example to all of us about what a lasting relationship
should look like. His influence is a constant in my life. He taught me to enjoy
the beauty of nature and enjoy the simplicity of Sunday drives and visiting on
the front porch. I think of him each time
I am tempted to shirk on a job. I remember how he never gave anything but his
best. I think of him each time I kneel
by my king sized bed to pray. I think
about him when I work outside in my yard.
He is in my head when I am stacking wood in the backyard and my pile
seems a little lopsided. I see him in my Harley Belle’s stubborn determination
and blunt sense of humor and I am so thankful she is his name sake.
I love you Grandpa and I sincerely thank you for all you
taught me, for raising my amazing mother, and for loving my Grandma with all
your heart. You are missed daily.
