Before dawn we would set out in the old truck pulling the boat. Our conversations were hushed in the still morning quiet. The rumble of the engine and grandpa’s soft voice would lull me into a sense of security. His presence in my life was like a continuous note in a fugue. It was so reassuring to know he was there. Now that he is gone the note still plays strong in my memory. His voice is as vivid as it was when he taught me how to paint houses as a child.

     When my paternal grandmother died, he took me to the woods with our dog. We walked through the autumn leaves quietly and I felt his consoling presence as I had on so many occasions before.  My fondest memories are of the times he took me fishing as a boy and young man. We usually arrived at the waters edge at dawn. We traveled the bayous and lakes with the wind and sun upon us. When he found the right place, we’d tie the boat up and sit for hours waiting for a bite. Though we spoke little during theses times, there was camaraderie between us. He gave me a gift, which at the time I didn’t realize I’d treasure years later.

     As a young man I returned to my grandparents after an illness. They took me in and we picked up where we left off without missing a beat. I labored many hours in the large garden he cultivated in the back yard. In his seventies he tilled the garden. On summer evenings we would sit in the backyard snapping beans. It was a sort of relaxed way of life, which most children in the city don’t know. I’ll always remember those times though I may never experience them again.

     More than cultivating a garden my grandfather cultivated himself, my mother, my aunt and me. His labors bore fruit. Through tough but loving care he protected me from the dangers lurking in the wider world. He provided a safe place to grow and develop. He couldn’t save us from all the perils of the world. He and I argued vociferously about politics and economics. However, he never rejected or loved me less for my outspoken opposition to his beliefs. Granddad’s spirit lives on in the plot he cultivated. Our lives bear his indelible workmanship.

     A week before he passed on I visited him. As I approached he was groggy. Upon seeing me he excitedly grabbed me in a hug. He held me there for several moments with the same old strength he’d always had. He was weeping. Then he said,” Take care of grandma.” I held his hand and he squeezed mine in a tight grip till he fell asleep and his hand relaxed. The gardener has finished his job.