The air was thick with humidity. It was a thickness even Bobby Flay would have a hard time cutting through. I had never experienced the heaviness of humidity. It was Spring Break, and I was in Joplin, Missouri.
My Grandpa had been diagnosed a second time with a rare cancer that was eating away at his liver. He had had it years before in his brain, got rid of it, but it had returned with partners in crime. He was a man of few words, but when he found out that the cancer didn't have much treatment and that only ten percent of people survive, his only words were, “I'm going to be that ten percent.” I had always admired that kind of positiveness.
My mother and I had gone out there with the knowledge it would be the last time that I would see him. While I knew this going out there, it really did not hit me until I saw him. A once tall, thin, and confident standing man was now what looked like just bare bones, shackled to a chair just by his lack of strength of get out of it.
My Grandpa was a avid golfer; it was his life. Now he could do nothing but watch the Golf Channel. Everyone around him was complaining about how unfair it was that he was unable just to go play. My Aunt Donna told me she asked him, “Why aren't you complaining?” His answer was one I'll never forget: “You can't do anything with what you don't have. Besides, I like the Golf Channel.”
Hospice had taken over the house. It was a sight that was a hard one at best. The humility and grace shown by my Grandpa being forced to ask for help was a profound one. He was never that man. That was a lesson in itself. But there were lots to be learned that week.
The first: Don't ride in the car with my Grandma.
Grandpa had requested that I make him a garden. Looking back, I'm not sure if it was as much for him as it was me. Or for my Grandma.
In any case, my Grandma and I had set out to the nursery. We passed the car dealership that also sold fish bait, and slew of mom and pop shops and restaurants and finally arrived at the nursery. It was average size, with a lot of different flowers and plants to choose from. We bought some soil, and few different kinds of flowers.
On the way home, my Grandma had gone of on one of her tangents, I don't remember about what, and I realized she was starting to swerve into the other lane. I saw a semi-truck coming in the lane. I told Grandma, “Get in the right lane.” First in a calm voice, like maybe I only had to say it once. But that wasn't the case. “Grandma,” I said this time louder. She kept talking. One more time, and this time practically screaming, “GRANDMA, GET IN YOUR LANE!” She stopped, froze, realized she was about to hit a semi and didn't do anything. I grabbed the wheel and got us back in the right lane. We didn't talk the rest of the way home.
When we arrived back at the house Grandpa called me over. “Dustin,” He was speaking very low, and intensely. “Did you ride in a car with your Grandmother?”
I didn't know how else he expected a 15 year old kid to get around a city he didn't know. “Yeah,” I answered slowly. He looked at me with fierce eyes and then said, “Do you want to die before I do?” Only he could get away with that.
I started in on the garden. I couldn't tell what in the world I was planting. The only one I recognized was my favorite flower, the morning glory. I liked that it had a new bloom each morning. It was a great reminder to me that I had the same opportunity. I took the shovel and started making way for the new plants. The dirt was hard, and I had to put a lot of water on it to make it even close to being able to dig into. By the end of the day I had finally made a ditch big enough to plant in the next day.
I woke up with a mission: Get the soil in, and arrange the plants in a good fashion. The soil was soft but the ground, like the day before, was not. Now, I have no experience gardening. In fact, all I know I learned from Mr. Feeny on Boy Meets World. But I got the ground good enough for the soil to sit well. Then I put the flowers in. That was easy enough, I thought. I didn't know how they'd turn out.
My Grandma told me there was a garden there before, and was surprised the ground wasn't nicer to me. I thought about that for a while. I figured it was simply because it wasn't taken care of properly. If it had been, it would have been easier.
When I left that garden, it was soil with seeds in it. My Grandpa never got to see the result of that garden. My Grandma did, and she sent me pictures. I was proud of how it turned out. It was as any 15 year old armature gardener would expect: Flowers in a row, blooming because of the care taken of them.
I planted it out of love.
Grandma grew it out of love.
Grandpa appreciated the love.
They both taught me that love grows more love.
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