legacy

His front yard sloped gently down toward the highway, but to quell the frequent rain waters rushing away too quickly, he had landscaped it-- a patch of trees here, a couple bushes there, to ease it down to the ditch. His gravel driveway, hand-poured, winded among the trees and shrubs to his chainlink gate, partially hidden behind the thick honeysuckle vines. At dawn on muggy summer mornings he'd swing one long, wiry leg over his silver riding lawnmower and buzz all over his yard, the front half-acre and the back forty. His grass was always a perfect half inch. When a pine started to throw out low branches, so low he'd have to duck his 6'4" frame under them, he'd make a run back to his white lean-to work shop, at the end of his first plot of land, and grab his chipper. These limbs make perfect mulch, he'd say as he sawed them off and then pushed them into the red metal hole, his yellow leather work gloves helping his large hands grip the gyrating timber.

He'd make a weekly trip to the barber shop in town, especially during the summer, every third visit getting a trim to his half-head of shiny, mousy brown hair, but mostly to collect the clippings they swept up for him. Keeps the deer away from the vegetables, he said, and it did for the most part. Sitting on the screened porch that stretched across the entire back of his house, thumb nails turning green from snapping or shelling peas, he'd swing with us women while we worked, feeling the breeze and listening to the windchimes tinkle and chime. Late summer nights were spent sorting blueberries on the porch, moving them from basket and bag into sealable buckets ready for taking to friends and neighbors, popping an occasional stray into our purple-stained mouths as we worked.

Just off the porch was his office with the keyboard drawer full of tasty secrets. He'd shush you and slip a foil wrapped peppermint patty into your hand while no one was looking. His computer was top of the line for the eighties, a full DOS system with Frogger and some other games. As soon as the internet was available, he had it too. On the wall opposite his computer was a giant world map, red-headed pins stuck in three-quarters of it, all the places he had visited over the years, most of them in the last ten or fifteen.

He loved his wife, he loved his children, and he especially loved his grandchildren. But he wasn't perfect. He could be strict on us, wanting things done in his way and only his way; unforgiving as well, not allowing for many disgretions beyond his approval. He grew up with nothing, hardly even a family to which to cling, so he clung to money, believing it would protect us in the end, after he was gone.

I understand more now, more as I get older. His porch, his yard, his family, that was all he needed to make him happy. Although he always believed the best thing he could do for us, the right thing, was to leave behind his money to take care of his wife and the rest of us, what he didn't know was his lasting legacy, the one I hold so dear on days like today, were the lessons he taught me just by living his life: simplicity and honesty. The greatest thing I have learned from him: just love, and be loved in return.