Our little guy was grandpa's 6th great-grandchild from a set of 9 grand-kids who used to spend many a summer day at his farm. There, our imagines ran wild as we built tree-houses, played hide-and-seek, and explored the little creek that ran through the back side of their property. Back in those days, our grandpa was spouse to our boisterous, kooky, wonderful grandma, who died about 10 years ago--a matriarch if ever there was one. He was the quieter of the two, and was until the day he died a simple man, a farmer in the richest, truest sense. A man who valued small talk, who could track the weather by looking at the sky, who--on those summer days when we'd stay over at their farm--would stand outside with us at night and tell us about the stars. I just discovered, too, that this man who was far more comfortable in well-worn flannel than a suit would give away most of his money to charities.
Perhaps what continually surprised and delighted me most about my grandpa was his scholastic knowledge, which I only knew about through chance conversations. Hidden behind the almost incomprehensible rural dialect by which he was known was a man fascinated by history and by stories. When I would come home from college we would often trade stories about Shakespeare or Leonardo--and often he remembered more details than me. I sometimes wonder if my own interest in academia came from him, who as an only child seemed to have found comfort in the written word.
This trip will be the first of Holden's outside the state, and the first after beginning sleep training. So I'm sure it will prove to be an adventure (hopefully a fairly smooth one). More on that to come.
But for now, Grandpa Campbell, you will be missed.
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