“It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things.”
I grew up going to my grandparent's farm, nestled in the mountains of West Virginia. There we would explore the old barn, drive the homemade go-kart that my grandad had built from scratch (much to my mother's protests), and play in the RV that was parked in the driveway. I didn't know it as a naive 8-year-old, but that massive beast of a vehicle had seen the better part of this country; driven down to the Florida Keys and up to Glacier Bay in Alaska and back by its curious owners. I like to think my grandparents never lost that sense of adventure.
My grandfather always told me that the most important thing in this life is to work hard and take pride in your accomplishments. He always worked on New Year's Day (it brought financial good luck for the year, he said). My grandparents were married on Christmas Eve, because it was the only day they both had off. He had bought an old laundry mat to help support his growing family. And from there, he started his own auto parts store, which eventually blossomed into 11 establishments across W. Virginia and Virginia. He sold it for a lump of money, and instead of living some lavish lifestyle, he and my grandmother retired in their 50s, to live comfortably for the rest of their years.
To some, he was Walter Carper, a broad-shouldered beast of man who would always do anything for anyone. He had been known to open his store on Christmas Day if someone was in need. To me he was plain ol' Grandad, who didn't have much to say (except for the occasion quip when introducing my grandmother, "This is my first wife, Edna") but had a lot of love to give. He was always tinkering with some camera or trinket, taking things apart and learning how they worked before putting it all back together. He never lost his sense of boyhood charm. I know he had a lot of stories from the 97 years he spent on this earth, and I regret not hearing more while he was around.
I've always been a hard worker; from schoolwork onto internships and onto my jobs where I've had to clean toilets! I've never felt like any job was beneath me, because as long as you work hard and do your best, that's all that matters. As a sit and type this with tears in my eyes, I know I can be thankful to him for all that he taught me: to work hard, to see the world, and learn as much as you can. His lessons will be passed on for a lot of time to come. I'll miss you, Grandad.