Sarah Nigbor

Father’s Day has always been a bittersweet day for me. My dad died at the young age of 42 when I was 2 years old, so I never got to know him. Even though it’s been over 40 years since his passing, that is still hard for me to accept. Hug your dads extra tight and cherish them this Sunday, if you’re lucky enough to still have yours here on earth.

I did, however, have the privilege to be raised by my grandfather Harlan, who stepped into the dad role. I truly hope our readers aren’t sick of me talking about him. It’s been 13 years since he died, but it still seems like yesterday. In my opinion, no better man ever walked this earth. I thank God every day for giving my grandparents to me and my mom and that we were able to live with them while I was growing up. I wouldn’t be who I am today without them and especially, Grandpa.

While Mom and Grandma worked, I spent hours with Grandpa in the summers. Every day was a new adventure. When I was small, I took pride in helping feed the beef calves and mucking out their stalls (though I’m not sure how much help I actually was). I rode with Grandpa on the riding lawn mower across the acres of grass. One of the funniest pictures of me as a child shows me bent over in a diaper, planting potatoes. My favorite days were when we picked berries or butternuts, or better yet, took out the old boat and went to Nugget Lake for a day of fishing. The day I caught my first sunny will always be with me.

My grandpa was a man of few words. He didn’t say anything unless he had something important to say and when he talked, people listened. We could spend hours together and barely say a word, but the silence was never uncomfortable. It was the warm silence that hangs between kindred spirits, when you don’t need incessant chatter to communicate.

I could set a clock by his daily schedule, which rarely varied though the tasks did. Up early in the morning before dawn for a bowl of Raisin Bran and a glass of grape juice, along with some coffee. Work until about 9:30, when it was time for a cup of coffee and a cookie. Back to work until noon, when it was time for lunch. Back out to work, with a water or coffee break mid-afternoon. If we were out in the woods, he’d have a thermos of coffee and a bag of cookies, while I sipped cold water from my own thermos. Back into the house about 5-5:30 p.m., when he’d go in through the basement door, take of his work boots and outer clothes, then head up to the bathroom to wash his hands and comb his hair. The routine was always the same, the rhythm of a lifelong farmer.

Because of him, I developed a hard work ethic that has served me well. When I feel like giving up, if I’m having a bad day because of an autoimmune flare and just don’t have it in me, I think about what he would say and how he always kept going, no matter what. That motivates me to take a deep breath, refocus and try harder. If he could be out digging up fence posts at age 93, then I can certainly get through an autoimmune disease. Never leave a job unfinished, push through to the end.

Yesterday, I painted our deck. I could’ve asked for help, but it’s something I prefer to do alone because I’m very picky. As I dipped the brush into the can of weather-resistant stain, I almost felt like Grandpa was standing beside, chiding me not to slop too much on my brush at a time. He always took the time to show me how to do things, and to do them right. Though an impatient man who had his coat on and was ready to go out the door an hour before he needed to be, he was never impatient with me.

I can’t remember Grandpa ever saying “I love you” but I never doubted that he did. He showed it every single day in all the little things he did. Happy Father’s Day in Heaven to the best man I ever knew.