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You may have read about my grandfather in my biography and artist’s statement, but to know the man was to love him. He had more granddaughters than granddsons and he made each one feel important.
For decades, he was a sixth grade teacher who had an influence on our entire community and on the cities and towns wherever he taught. When he died, his funeral was crowded with former students and teachers who knew him well and remembered what he taught them.
As our grandfather, he made us feel special, and we wanted to please him. He admired our shiny bouncy ringlets. We would quicken our steps when he was nearby so our curls would bob even harder.
He helped us practice perfect posture by placing books on our heads as we walked to keep our spines straight and strong. Even now when I catch a glimpse of myself with shoulders slumped, grandpa whispers in my ear reminding me to pull my shoulders back and stand up straight.
His love of the dance made winter days indoors a fest of delight, at least for most of us. We learned “The Hokey Pokey,” the “Grand Right and Left” and any other music that not only stressed rhythmn but self control and coordination. He helped prepare dance festivals for schools and churches that were performed on a nearby football field. “Peter Cotton Tail” was one I remember, and dancing the Maypole with numerous poles scattered across the field and a myriad of brightly dressed dancers holding onto multi-colored streamers.
Having a male teacher who enjoyed dancing kept the boys in line. Some of them even enjoyed the experience. When it came to biology, grandfather’s first love, the boys witnessed his tough side. He loved spiders and snakes and made them a part of our curriculum. We handled them, learned how vital they were to the ecosystem, and lost our fear as we got to know and understand them better.
One Fall we gathered monarch caterpillars from the milkweed plants outside our school yard and placed them in glass canning jars. We fed them and watched each of them form a chrysalis. When Spring arrived, we observed their struggle to break out and dry off their fragile wet wings. Grandfather allowed the butterflies to flutter freely about our classroom, but most of them flew to the windows bouncing against the glass until they grew tired.
Finally, they settled on the window ledge letting us approach them if we wanted to and curiously crawling up our hands and arms with their tickly prickly legs. During recess, we fed them sugar water from jar lids. I’ll never forget the wonder of watching an orange and black butterly sit on my palm and unroll its long proboscis to drink the life-giving water.
When the time came for their release, we opened up the windows and our butterflies flew to freedom. We yearned to bring them back as they fluttered upward tinting the sky with orange. We would never be the same.
