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My grandpa, Willard Rodman, grew up on a farm during the Great Depression and fought in the Pacific theater during World War II.
Upon returning home, he married the woman who would become my grandma, raised three children, and retired from the California fire department.
As a child I lived down the street from him and during summer vacation my sister and I would spend all day at his house. I felt anything but fortunate at this circumstance — these daily trips filled me with dread.
In the mornings he would make me study complex math problems from a Catholic schoolbook at his desk.
My grandma, the strict schoolmaster, would keep me on track by saying, “Willard, Kit’s eyes are wandering again” when I’d look at the television or daydream out the window.
In the afternoons I’d learn about our family tree or work out in his yard — he always kept an immaculate garden.
I felt my time would be better served watching reruns of “Saved by the Bell” or “Family Matters,” but Grandpa knows best.
When I was 11, my parents divorced. And after my mother remarried, I moved away to a rural town in southern Indiana. As happy as I thought I’d be, I found myself floundering without his guidance.
One summer, after recovering from a quintuple heart bypass surgery, Grandpa came to visit us. Part of my chores was to mow the 10 acres of natural grassland surrounding our property with a riding lawnmower.
I remember waking up a few days after his arrival to cut the grass. Grandpa stood at the windows in our house all day and watched me work. Each time I looked up he was standing with his hands on his hips; a stoic expression on his face.
The sun was beginning to set as I finished mowing the final acre. After I parked the lawnmower in the garage I walked outside to smell and admire the freshly trimmed grass when I noticed Grandpa walking toward me. I was expecting him to tell me I missed a spot. But he didn’t.
Instead he put his arm around my shoulder, gave me a squeeze and said, “You remind me a lot of myself when I was your age.”
I’ve never felt so good in my entire life.
It wasn’t until my adult years that I began to value the lessons he taught me at his desk or working with him in the garden. He used tough love on me for a reason — he knew I needed it to become a man.
But lessons learned young aren’t learned till later.
I suppose, even as a man, I’m still that young boy trying to become a person that would make my grandpa proud.
Kitsana Dounglomchan, an 11-year Air Force veteran, writes about his life and times for Clovis Media Inc. Contact him at: [email protected]