William Albert Jenne
September 1, 1915 – May 3, 2009
This past Saturday we held a memorial service in memory of my grandfather Bill. For the service I wrote the personal reflection below. (My grand-uncle Jim Smotherman, to whom I am deeply grateful, read my reflection and several others from my family at the service.)
When I was in 1st Grade, Mrs. Collins taught us how to write basic poetry. I still remember a few of my poems and one in particular was about my grandfather:
Grandpa is the gardener in my house;
He plants the seeds and pulls the weeds;
Grandpa is the gardener in my house.
A simple poem but true of my grandpa in ways I did not intend at seven-years-old.
Over the years I have watched my grandfather at work in his garden, his greenhouse and in the soil of friends and neighbors. And I listened closely to the stories he told around Gracie’s table. Stories shared in the cab of his truck while we hauled old newspapers, barrels of sawdust, bouquets and gift baskets. Stories about the land. About generations of his family and their neighbors. About calves born, barnyard surgery and stubborn cows lost in the woods.
In these tales my grandfather quietly shared his wisdom. Bits about trust, courage, wealth and friendship; all mixed with his specific sense of humor. He shared and we laughed and in the process he sowed seed amidst the milkshakes, burgers and errands of the day.
Some of those seeds arrived in action not word. Holiday meals are memories of grandma busy in the kitchen but breakfast will always be about grandpa cooking me extra well-done scrambled eggs & cheese with black pepper. I would sit at the countertop and watch him cook. And then eat while he made certain not to leave dishes or a mess for grandma.
Whether it was my fierce appetite or simply the energy of youth, my grandpa’s nickname for me was Tiger. And in recent months he had taken to calling my nephew Joel the same. I could easily spend hours relating the adventures of Gramps & Tiger—tales of personal and practical lessons learned. The lessons my father John is now learning to teach his grandson.
This Spring my grandfather still had lessons yet to teach. My wife and I hope to one day have a house and a garden of our own. Until then grandpa had offered us a plot in his own garden. This Spring he made the effort to take me on an outing to buy seeds. We sat round the kitchen table and he patiently supervised while our unsure fingers fiddled with tweezers to sow lettuce, chard, kale and herbs.
Those seeds sat sprouting in his greenhouse while he rested inside. When the weather warmed Grace helped us plant our seedlings. Grandpa couldn’t join us in the garden but still had knowledge to share in his ever patient way. He encouraged our fledgling first steps and was pleased that our hands were in the soil.
Grandpa is the gardener in my house;
He plants the seeds and pulls the weeds;
Grandpa is the gardener in my house.
Bill was my grandfather. My cultivator, my keeper, my gardener. He planted seeds in the soil of my heart. And he gently pulled my weeds and tended to me so I grew strong and tall.
He won’t be here for our first harvest of vegetables in the coming weeks, but he had already seen the fruits of his labor: his marriage, his daughter, his grandchildren and his great-grandson.
I am blessed to know he was proud of his harvest.
