FROM THE

BY SARAH NIGBOR

The good old days As we navigate the grieving process after losing my husband’s grandpa, I can’t help but be reminded of my own grandpa, Harlan Lundgren. He died in 2013 and not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. I have written about him in my columns several times, and I hope you’re not sick of hearing about him. You see, he is my hero.

My mom and I lived with my grandparents until I was 12 years old. My dad died when I was 2, so my beloved grandpa was the only dad I ever knew. He spent his retirement years being a dad to me. I often think of that. My grandmother too. She was my second mother during the years things should have slowed down for them.

Some of my earliest memories are of Grandpa. I remember climbing into his bed to mess up his hair in the morning, or strutting around the house clomping in his big work boots. Being pushed on the old metal swing set in the backyard or watching him and my uncles throw horseshoes. Sitting on the roasting hot red vinyl of his single-cab Chevy S-10 on a hot summer day. Being filled with delight at the lemon drops that came from a crinkly brown bag at Lund’s Hardware. Cold, orange soda from a glass bottle plucked from the cooler when we went to Dale’s Service Shop. Munching on Raisin Bran in the dark, morning hours and looking back to see him watching from the living room window as I boarded the school bus.

I wanted to be just like him and I had to do everything he did. When he’d come in from outside for the day, he’d wash his hands with Dove soap, wet his comb, and smooth his hair. He always had very neat hair. On occasion, you might hear a curse word slip from his mouth, especially when his chainsaw was giving him grief. He was always patient with me, but not so much with a slipped chain.

At the end of the workday before supper, I too would go into the bathroom with Grandpa, wash my hands and comb my hair. I even had a little comb of my own. Apparently one time, and I don’t remember this, I dropped that little comb and swore like a sailor. “Son of a b& A%#, I dropped my GD comb!” I yelped. I must have been about 4. Needless to say, Grandma was not amused and Grandpa bit back a laugh. I learned that day not to copy everything Grandpa said. Even though it was best not to repeat some of the words that came out of Grandpa’s mouth, I grew up wanting to be as much like him as possible. I did everything in my power to make him proud.

It's hard to watch Shane miss his grandpa, because I know exactly how he feels. It’s a hollow void that never goes away.

I heard a saying not long ago that really hit home. Someone said, “I wish there was a way to tell you were in the good old days when you were actually in them.” I wish I could tell my 15-year-old self that, as I stood on the drawbar of Grandpa’s tractor, clutching his worn, denim coat as we headed home from a day in the woodlot. To cherish the quiet camaraderie as we sat on the edge of the wood trailer, sipping coffee during a woodcutting break. To commit to memory every berry-picking adventure or butternut hunting mission. To soak in the warmth of the sun-soaked concrete of the back stoop as we sipped a Squirt from the can. To hear him call me Snooks one more time.