Shortly thereafter, Mr. Erdman, Mrs. D and I met with our building principal, all well aware of the mandatory social distance. We accomplished a few things but for me the value was in the face to face contact. I'm not sure much was decided but we were able to share a few things and ease each other's anxieties about Week #1 of Distance Learning.
A trip to the gas station for a treat and a slow country drive home with the windows down was helping to ease my worried mind but as the truck climbed the hill by the highschool, I still felt out of whack. Remembing that my mud boots were in the back, I pulled in to the lot at the rink and decided it was time for a walk with Big Paul.
See, I'm not Big Paul.
I'm Little Paul.
Big Paul was my Grandpa. He died in a car accident in 1994. I was an 18 years old Marine, recently assigned to the Fleet. I flew home on emergency leave to comfort my grandmother and to bury my namesake. He never saw me in uniform but I carried his casket in my Service Alphas. I'm not sure that I've been to the cemetery in 20+ years but I think of him often.
I think of him when I hear my Grandma's voice on the other end of the phone. She's the one that often still refers to me as Little Paul. I think of Grandpa when I take my kids to the Pine City Flea Market in July. Big Paul was an original American Picker. I think of my Grandpa each time I do something crafty. He was a proud German carpenter although I inherited very little of that craftiness.
What I remeber of Big Paul was his mastery of the French Language. Grandma would fuss and my mother would ask him not to talk that way in front of the kids. He heeded neither warning. I remember my grandfather knew a lot of people in his neighborhood. He'd always have someone to stop and offer his opinion to. Grandpa Paul knew his way around the BEER too. Now, I wish I remembered his flavor to have one in his honor.
But what I most remember about my Grandpa was that he loved his grandkids. It was a treat to ride up to the recycling center with Grandpa to turn in some cans for pocket change. Although I'm sure many adults probably took us to that playground by my grandparents house in Aurora, I don't have the foggiest recollection of anyone else doing it, except Grandpa. But the real reward for us grandkids was to go up to Phillips Park and hunt for golf balls.
Oh he wasn't a golfer. I've told that story before. Big Paul was Fred Sanford. He saw value in everything. And when I say value, I mean that he saw PROFIT in everything. What other people wasted, Paul Sempsrote turned in to cash in his pocket. He toted us youngins along. Maybe it was to have another set of eyes looking for another golfball to turn in to a dime but what it felt like was LOVE.
As the snow melts and the Spring rains come, you can sometimes find me pacing the receeding snow piles that surround our outdoor, city, skating rinks. It's the in between times of a fading hockey season and the hope that springs eternal of a turkey hunt or baseball on the horizon. Puddles of disappearing slush leave behind stray hockey pucks left behind from winter's games of shiny and the wandering slapshot of the next Wayne Gretzky.
I don't need anymore pucks. I have buckets full in the garage. I usually like to hunt for them with Logan but his interest is fading. He has all the pucks he could ever need. To work on their game, he and Emma shoot buckets of pucks from time to time. But I can't resist the pull to go on a nice peaceful walk around a park. Each time I do, I think of Big Paul - looking for another man's errant golf ball. Seeing value in the misplaced and discarded. Looking for a way to earn a nickle.
I don't sell the pucks like Grandpa used to sell the golf balls but each time I find another one, I smile and wish I could go on one more walk with Big Paul.
1 comment:
Thanks for the story Paul!
Post a Comment