Memories of Grandpa Mac

Everyone living on a foreign mission field must face the reality that changes take place back home without us. When I first came to Uganda last September, I fully expected to not meet my newest niece until she was nine months old. Sadie was born in November; I got to see pictures and looked forward to meeting her in person. When my next oldest sister got engaged (as she warned me would probably happen while I was gone), I began looking at plane tickets. Thanks to the generosity of many people, especially the engaged couple, I was able to fly home, meet my two-month-old niece, spend Christmas with my family, and attend the family reunion that was my sister's wedding on January 2. I also got to see my Grandpa Mac one last time.

My Grandpa, Alan McIntyre, died last Friday morning. When I first came to Uganda, Grandpa was in the process of looking into treatment options for his cancer. On one level, I knew that there was a possibility that Grandpa would not be here when I return in July, but I didn't think that possibility would prove true. Changes happen, but it is hard to really expect them to happen in one's absence.

Grandpa's funeral is scheduled for April 9. I will be here in Karamoja. The missionary community here is very kind, supportive, and caring. I think what I will miss the most about not going to the funeral is the chance to swap Grandpa Mac stories with my family. There are a lot of good Grandpa Mac stories. Since I won't be able to do so in person, I would like to share some of my memories of Grandpa Mac with the family and friends who read this blog. 

So many memories! Watching Grandpa steam corn on the cob for the Toewes family reunion; going with him to the woods behind their house to scare starlings with the gas canon or 22s; drinking Grandpa's ice tea, which my siblings and I called "brown stuff;" Grandpa helping and teaching my siblings and me to fish at a friend's pond, untangling our lines and helping us attach worms; taking us to explore the Susquehanna river bed during a drought; taking us swimming in the neighbor's pool; taking us out in his motorboat, which, as I recall, became a rowboat when the motor stopped working; taking us for walks in the woods in search of wine berries; going hunting and shooting. Grandpa Mac was an outdoorsman.

As I think back over my memories, I realize that many of the things I enjoy doing now, Grandpa was involved in. For example, as a kid, I played in his work shop many times. I remember one time tearfully examining the wobbling structure of wood and nails that I had put together in the hopes of making a chair. And I remember Grandpa telling me that making things with wood is hard, even for carpenters. I have never tried to make a chair again, but I still enjoy playing in wood shops and working on less ambitious projects.

It was Grandpa Mac who taught me to ride a bicycle without training wheels. He held on to the back of the bike seat to keep me steady while I pedaled around the parking lot of the church near my Grandparent's house in Lancaster. I didn't notice when he let go. I suddenly realized that Grandpa is standing over there, and I am biking all by myself! 

In 2012, Grandpa went to the Cleveland Clinic for cancer treatment. During those several weeks, he and my Grandmother stayed at "The Hope Lodge," a place at which those undergoing treatment and their caregivers could stay for free if they lived more than 50 miles from the Clinic. In the summer of that year, I had the privilege of partaking in a fundraiser for the Hope Lodge: a four-day bicycle ride across Ohio. I rode the bike that my grandparents gave me as a high school graduation present. The following summer, I biked across the U.S. with a small team in order to raise funds for a scholarship at my alma mater, Geneva College. My parents and grandparents joined the team for a short time. On a foggy morning in Indiana, I biked with my Mom and Grandpa Mac for 20 miles. A long way from training wheels.

Then, of course, there is hunting and shooting. (Despite the many fishing excursions Grandpa took me on, I am afraid I will never have his enjoyment of the sport). I remember shooting one of Grandpa's BB guns in his back yard with my siblings. I might have been eight. Grandpa took me deer hunting when I was 12. When my Dad and brother shot their first bucks, Grandpa marked their foreheads with some of the blood. I did not succeeded in downing a buck until I was 23. Grandpa wasn't there to perform the ritual, but I asked my boss, who came to help drag the deer, to do it. One time, Grandpa, my dad, my older brother, and I went pheasant hunting with a friend of Grandpa's who had a pair of bird dogs. I wasn't actually hunting because I was too young, but the pheasant stew Grandpa made afterwards was delicious. Grandma had a rule: you kill it, you grill it.

During high school, college, and the few years after, I did not go on as many adventures with Grandpa Mac, but we swapped stories. Sometimes, I joined him on his dog-walking-loop, and he would point out different animals or points of interest along the way. Grandpa was certainly not the most talkative member of the family, but his stories and occasional one-liners at the dinner table were always entertaining. When I went to work at Ligonier Camp and Conference Center after college, we continued swapping stories over the phone periodically. I'd tell him about wood cutting day at camp, about any biking adventures I'd had lately, and about any interesting wildlife I'd seen. Most of his stories involved wildlife, whether animals he'd seen recently or many years ago.

While at Ligonier, I was advised to get a goose hunting license. I had never been goose hunting before, nor did I have a shotgun, but it sounded worth a shot. I asked Grandpa if he had a 12 gauge I could borrow. But "borrow" did not seem to be a part of Grandpa's vocabulary. He gave me his single-shot, break action shotgun, which, he explained, his father had given him when he was 12 years old. As he handed it to me, he said, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't sell it." Sell it? Absolutely not, that shotgun is going to be in the family for many years to come!

This coming May, I plan to go on a safari. Grandpa Mac always wanted to go on an African safari. I had hoped to be able to take lots of pictures and share them and the accompanying stories with him when I go back to the States. I'll still go, and take pictures, and think of Grandpa. We'll have lots of stories to swap when we meet again in glory.