Grandpa George Reid passed away Sunday, November 23rd in Farmington, New Mexico. He was battling a bad case of pneumonia and other related complications.
In his 87 years, he weathered many things that would have felled lesser men: farming in NE Colorado, veteran of the 3rd Marines in the South Pacific, specifically the Bougainville/Solomon Islands campaign, a return to farming in NE and SW Colorado, raising a girl and
four extraordinarily ornery boys, and later in life serious burns over a good part of him as a result of a natural gas explosion while on the job. I'm
positive that I'm forgetting something.
A more detailed obituary (that completely glosses over the four wicked boys part)
can be found here with a nice, color photo of Grandpa in happier times, namely fishing at Lake Navajo (likely).
While attending the funeral and visiting with cousins that made it, it became quite apparent that I knew him far less than the others, and by extension, was the least close to him of the group. I only got to see him once a year usually, as a kid living in Alaska, and then during college I usually saw him twice a year as I passed between Texas and home in Nevada.
In the times I did spend with him, it was clear he enjoyed the time spent with me. Sometimes it was tending to his garden, particularly the grape vines he was justly proud of. More often it was usually fishing, a Pearl Lite or a Coors (if he felt like spending a little more) in one hand or set on the floor, his fishing rod, and a slowly trolling motor steered with his other. He could be short fused, but never directly with me. But he kept things simple and delighted in the uncomplicated pleasure of fishing, fresh air, a beer buzz, and quiet nights away from town.
He made it to Alaska at least a couple of times, probably cursing the travel time involved, but enjoying the fishing and the outdoors. We were lucky enough to meet him on the island of Maui when I was a kid. I think he had a good time, from what I remember, but I just wonder what the trip meant to him given the South Pacific tour in WWII that he very rarely talked about.
When I get to know people, I make an effort of understanding where they're coming from and how their experience shapes their pleasant or not-so-pleasant characteristics. I'm usually successful, but with Grandpa, I was never successful and I attribute that to the unimaginable trauma of his WWII experience such that he wouldn't speak of it. As a kid I couldn't fathom that and I still don't think I could. But I always got the sense something else was on his mind. He was always a little distracted.
And in this day and age of medication, counseling, and post traumatic stress disorder, who knows what terrible memory or burden he lived with like a millstone around his neck. I certainly don't judge him for keeping all of that to himself. But it always seemed to keep him just beyond arm's length of personal connection. He learned to live with it the best way he knew how, and in the end it was a long life lived on his terms.
Grandpa, while you were a bit of an enigma, you were strong, a generous fishing buddy and you could have a wicked sense of humor. You will certainly be missed by me and everyone who knew you - well, except of course the trout at Groundhog. May you rest in peace with Grandma and the other WWII heroes that share your final resting place.
