One Good Joseph Bruchac Deserves Another

When I was growing up, my Grampa Hakala was the educational center of my life. He was probably in his late 50s when this picture of him with me was taken on the front lawn of his house in Boylston, Massachusetts.

Grampa had this way of getting you to do what you knew he wanted by setting the example and just simply expecting you to do your best. I think if I'd been smart enough to figure that out way back then and told him so, he would have been surprised, maybe smiled and then said to himself, "That Sonja. What will she come out with next?"

When Grampa "retired" from the factory where he worked, he went across the street to his neighbor and asked if he could plant a garden in the field next to the man's house. The neighbor agreed and the next summer, Grampa planted about three acres of strawberries, potatoes, squash, beans, onions, corn, you name it, in that field. He already had 75 cultivated blueberry bushes next to his own house plus several current bushes. (I swear I'm a devoted gardener and eater of veggies and fruit, locally grown if I don't grow it myself, because of Grampa and Grandma Hakala.)

Then Grampa built a stand next to the road where he could sell the produce.

Being the oldest grandchildren, my cousin Gigi and I (we were probably 9 and 10 when we started) took care of the stand. We also sorted strawberries, culling the good from the bad, because Grampa insisted on giving good value to his customers, who became legion. Seriously, they'd line up after church let out, waiting for us to bring the first berries in from the field.

We sold corn by the baker's dozen—always adding an extra ear for folks who bought less than twelve. We learned how to accurately add up the cost of three quarts of berries, two pounds of potatoes, some beans and beets, make change and treat people well.

And we witnessed how much others valued our grandfather.

He was my first and, I would argue, my best teacher. Many of my siblings and cousins get the same reverential tone in their voices when we talk about Grampa.

He's been gone for 30 years now and I still think of him nearly every day. I have a summer shirt of his and a winter sweater. The shirt is hanging in my closet right now and I touch it in the morning as I get dressed for the day. I do the same with the sweater in the winter.

Anyway, poet and novelist Joseph Bruchac obviously had a grandfather like mine and felt the same way about him. This poem is for them and it's found in Joe's book Near the Mountains.

Morning Song

My grandfather always rose with the sun.

It was his oldest friend.

The front door of the general store he ran

faced toward the east and he'd sit there

in a blue painted chair of pine cut from his woods,

waiting for those first rays to touch his face.

He grew stronger as the light moved higher,

hands moving like crickets coming back to life

among grass blades frosted overnight.

Then, before he'd stand to his long day's work,

he'd lift his palms and hold them there,

just long enough to cup the sun.