Figuring it all out.

Here I am. A 30 year old and I still have no clue about anything! There are still a million things I feel like I need to figure out before Liza is old enough to know. I still haven't found my way with being a mommy, wife, cook, housecleaner, or friends. Maybe I'll never really figure it out, but I'd like to find some sort of groove. You know?

I also have to figure out this whole blog thing. I'd like to do something with it. I feel like it could be a way to honor my grandfather and also be a way to get out some of my thoughts at the same time as forcing me to do all the creative things that I know I can do!

In the mean time, here is a little something that I wrote for my grandfather and that I read at his Memorial Service in May. I miss you a little more everyday, Pop.

Pop

I could tell you about the time that Pop had to dig my car out of a snowy ditch or the time he told me that he thought highly of my writing.  I could tell you how he marched me into the President of RIC’s (or as he would say, R-I-C) office or how he was able to present me with my college degree. I might tell you the story about how he once took me sailing or about how my grandmother liked to comb his unruly eyebrows. I could tell you stories about singing silly camp songs, shopping trips, tractor rides and hiking in the woods.

But all that matters is that those memories, those moments with my grandfather, have helped me to become me. Those memories are mixed into my soul, my very being. They are a part of me. A part of who I am as a friend, daughter, granddaughter, wife, and mother.

He taught me to embrace life, to embrace people and to embrace knowledge. He helped me to become brave and confident in myself. He taught me that memories need to be made and that family traditions are an important part of life. He showed me that it is okay to sometimes have the unpopular opinion.

My Pop wasn’t really one to say “I love you,” but looking back, I guess he didn’t have to. He might not have said it, but he showed it. He showed us with every handmade Birthday card, the Valentine’s in our mailboxes, every candy bar (or bar of soap) he brought back from Ireland, every book he gave us, every chocolate cabinet he made for us, our yearly Christmas shopping trips to the 5 and 10 (and later the $1 Store). He showed us by naming paths and fields with our names. He showed us with every “hoo-hoo” he shouted to us and every blob of butter he stuck on our noses while we blew out our birthday candles.

Maybe he just didn’t think the words were as important as the actions?

 I’ll miss his loud sneezes and his whiskey scented kisses.

Sarah Houghton Weyer