His hands, littered with calluses, wrinkles, and age spots, struggle to open the sugar packet. He takes five in his iced tea. I concentrate intently to remember every detail of moments like these. I cling to his words with child-like wonder and admiration. As he glances sharply out the window, I trace the clouds of cataracts over his soft blue iris with my eye’s clear gaze. Light purple bags hang gently to touch his sunken cheeks. “I’m the most fortunate guy in the world,” he says with a smile, “I get to do what I love everyday.” He says what he means and only speaks on what he knows.
We share a close, unspoken bond, despite the polarity of our perspectives and his brash manner. I joke that his Fox News makes my ears bleed and he tells me I’m a brain washed liberal.
Looking from his plate of chicken to his chest, I picture the scar on his left breast, and the bump… Shallowly placed under his leathery skin lies his seventh pacemaker.
Looking from his plate of chicken to his chest, I picture the scar on his left breast, and the bump… Shallowly placed under his leathery skin lies his seventh pacemaker.
We laughed over stories from the past- his high school years, our visit to his hometown in Ohio, and my driving lessons at age seven. We talk seriously about my future plans. His eyes begin to well as he lowers the brim of his CAT construction hat. “Just be a person, Chelseabug,” he says, as he often does during life chats, at the end of every phone call or on a lunch date like this one. “…And don’t waste time on anyone who don’t treat you right.”
Born a farmer, this self- taught carpenter and Alaska pioneer is my hero and largest confidant. My children and grandchildren will hear many stories of this man, my unlikely best friend- the seventy-eight year-old multi- millionaire who always wore work jeans, a plaid shirt, and a hat covered in saw dust, the same man who complains about the rising price of cod. I smile as he over- salts his lemon and quickly bites it off the rind; my favorite snack I undoubtedly learned from him. But there’s too much to say, too much life to capture to assure his survival. Through writings, phone calls and videos I desperately work to preserve this legacy. Someone so influential and inspiring should not be easily forgotten; the inevitable should not be this hard to accept. I want him here forever and I can’t accept anything less. Deep down, I know he’ll soon join the frames and photo albums of the many loved and lost. Stories will dwindle, photos will tear, and memories will fade as life moves beyond the yellowing snapshots. They’ll flip over photos to ask, “Who was Ronny?” I’ll tell them, but they’ll never know the man I know. They’ll hear of his adventures, his humor, his gruffness, and our bond.
Reality is, someday we will all be reduced to that, then less, and even less: a name, maybe a picture, accompanied by the dates of birth and death on a family tree. But I want more for him! “I’m just a grandpa that don’t know nothing,” he laughs, though I take his advice like he knows it all. "Just be a person," he says as we hug and kiss goodbye. Maybe it is time for me to listen and truly understand the legacy he's worked so hard to leave:
Ronald “Ronny” Patrick Siefker, my grandpa, was born and lived and will die a person, with “no bullshit” as he’d say.
