I couldn’t have imagined this much change ten years ago. There’s an entire network of marsh trails for the ATVs. The outhouse itself has gotten a facelift and lights. We’ve reclaimed hundreds of square feet of the yard from woodpiles, building materials, scrap metal, and old vehicles.
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And inside, there’s enough free floor space to accommodate two full-size trucks. The pole barn has lights and power, inside and out! It’s got an automatic garage door. You don’t have to walk 200 feet to plug in the pump you can just flick the switch on the post next to it. We’ve got actual power running to it underground instead of through a network of extension cords hung along the garden fence and trees! You can stay there comfortably for multiple nights without ever having to go into the big trailer. My trailer is air conditioned in the summer and heated in the winter.
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They know how to wait.Īnd we’ve made progress. These plates won’t fall and shatter if I don’t keep them spinning. A little tree trimming can change a whole area of the yard for the better. Areas neglected for years will bounce back the first time they’re properly mowed again. And this land, paradoxically wet and marshy at the same time as it’s dry and sandy, is remarkably adaptable and forgiving. Not for me, not for himself, not for anyone. Grandpa had big plans and ideas for this place, but he never had expectations. I don’t know why, but it took until this year for me to finally realize that kind of thinking is bullshit.
I thought I was doing a poor job of honoring Richie’s memory. I was ashamed that I wasn’t living up to the expectations I set for myself. I didn’t want to write because I didn’t feel like I earned to write. And as much as I’ve tried to take care of it over the years, I always felt like I was playing catch-up and not doing a very good job. It’s no secret that I idealize and revere this place as a sort of Hero’s Memorial for my grandfather.
Bringing each of my boys up for their first trips. Opening up new areas of the yard and marsh thanks to the new four wheelers. Running underground power to the pole barn and my trailer. Lyssa and I finding out we were pregnant with Jake. There are so many things I could have chronicled. But while I came up as often as I was able, I would never write. After grandpa died, my dad took over writing duties during deer camp. There are even occasional mini-entries and margin notes from a young me. There are entries from their friend Jeannie, my mom, my aunt Linda–it served as a guestbook of sorts where visitors could briefly transcribe their experience. If Inee (grandma) came up with him, she’d usually take up the pen. Richie wasn’t the only one who kept the log. I’m not sure how much they would interest anyone else, but they help me bind my memories of him to this place. The work he had done, what the weather was like, who stopped by–stuff like that. These were not verbose journal entries or opinion pieces. My grandpa kept a log of every visit to Puckaway.
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