November 30, 2020 (Reposted)

My grandfather shook me awake then immediately shushed me by holding a finger up to his lips.

“Listen. Coy dogs.”, he intently whispered.

Though startled, I did as instructed. I was a teenager and I’d been sleeping on their couch, which had grown a little too short for me. My legs dangled over the end as I took in the situation. I didn’t quite know what the differences between coy dogs and coyotes were. There was a pack howling nearby, both beautiful and a little scary. I asked him if they were dangerous and he shook his head no. Not usually. But there were a lot of cases of rabies in the area that year, so maybe a little bit. Stay away from them, he told me as an afterthought.

I didn’t live in Maine, I just visited in the summer and some holidays. The Maine woods intimidated me and I wasn’t about to go wandering in them at night, not alone anyhow. The odds of encountering a pack of rabid coyotes was slim, but I still paid attention to the suggestion.

My grandfather was something of a puzzle to me, a bundle of contradictions and irregular edges. He is getting quite old. My grandmother died some six years ago now. She was the key to understanding at least part of the old man. If there is a coyote in my family, it is my grandfather. Cunning trickster grandfather. Sometimes fool, sometimes sage. Unpredictable and a little bit dangerous if cornered.

I learned to notice things she saw as admirable in him. It helped me notice what other people loved, which has helped me to better read the world around me.

I also watched her hang her head, patiently waiting as he boiled over and ranted on and on about topics until he settled back down. I heard her caution against making his mistakes and saw the pain in her eyes. Sometimes those cautions came too late and they served to help develop empathy in me. Other times they helped prevent me from continuing the cycles. She constantly urged me to get beyond myself and I try as best as I’m able, I suppose.

One day I was visiting and we got into the truck to drive to my grandfather’s work for an appointment. It was well past his heart attack, and he was a kinder and gentler person, but he hadn’t yet retired. It turned out that the appointment was to feed a flock of birds. Seagulls, mostly. Some crows. Grandfather got out of the truck and went into the parking lot, flinging clumps of bread to birds and laughing with joy. She looked on and her eyes were soft with love and light.

Grandfather loving the natural world was not only part of what she loved, she was an active participant. They took me to go whale watching as a kid. They spent hours telling me about the animals which came into their yard in the Maine woods. They both glowed when the turkey flock visited the yard.

Grandfather would spend long moments lost in thought looking at rocks and trees, making comments about relationships he saw between the components of the world. Small things, little observations. Walking with him was a delight, even when, especially when, he didn’t quite make sense to me.

My grandfather used to burst into spontaneous laughter while I visited, seemingly out of nowhere. I thought he was something of a loon. Over the past couple of years, the ones in which I have been a father, I find myself laughing that same crazy laugh. It is joyful and it is genuine, like my grandfather at his best. He won’t be here for very long, these being his twilight years. Knowing that I will be hearing his laughter erupting spontaneously from my soul for the rest of my own days brings me great comfort.

I’m reposting this because my grandfather is very close to passing and is in my heart and mind.