Harold Naylor was a builder. He took good straight 2 x 4’s and nice pine boards and made whatever we told him we needed. Strong pieces that we still use every day. And while he was building Holly’s bookshelf and grandma’s kitchen cupboards, he was turning houses into homes and folks into a family.
Among the things I’ve come to know by being a part of his family is my
understanding that times can be hard, and things can be good even so. Thanks to Grandpa, I almost feel the dust of
a Kansas farm under my bare feet. I hear
the laughter of his brother and sisters as that old billy goat pulled them
around in the cart their dad built. I
see the tumbleweed they decorated for Christmas, and feel the mischievous mood
that led him and Buddy to go fishing in the stock tank and catch all those
goldfish.
I know about responsibility from a man who took care of the
girls in his family when his dad passed away, and kept right on taking care of
them later, when his stepsisters were widows and we visited with them while he
helped with one project or another around their houses. They paid in good home cooking and he never
wanted anything more.
I learned about hard work as I watched for him to
come walking home in the evening from his job with Union Pacific Railroad. He wore a bright yellow hard hat and carried
his lunch box, and he worked 40 years without a single accident in the heat and
in the snow. Steady and strong was his way,
and straight the path he followed. And
things just didn’t get in his way! When
he set his mind to something, we all knew we didn’t really stand a chance of
changing it. We’d roll our eyes and
grumble to each other. “Grandpa’s got it all planned out,” we’d complain. But chances were we’d eventually have to
admit that it was a pretty good plan, and the truth was, it didn’t matter
whether we thought so or not!
I felt the power of his devotion to Grandma. Though he teased her about her “suitcase” of a purse, and grumbled about her knick-knacks, he often told us what a sweetheart she was, and if I ever saw him worry, it was about her. During World War II, the troop transport train he was on just happened to come through Notus. He was on duty in the kitchen car and he quickly scribbled out a strictly forbidden note to her and threw it out the door. He was always grateful that the officer in charge said he hadn’t seen a thing, but if he’d gotten reprimanded, it would have been worth it. He needed to let his sweetheart know that he was okay. He came home from the war and married her and spent 60 years doing little things to make her happy.
He taught me about family. My mom was his “babe” even when she was a parent herself, and my dad was absolutely the son he never had, who called him Dad and knew it was true. He held each of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren in the first hours of their lives, and loved watching the family grow. He had funny stories about each of us that he could pull out to tease us with around the campfire. He accepted us for who we were and recognized the best in us. He said if you loved your kids they were going to be spoiled plain and simple, and though grandma is the spoiler, he often got caught helping her do it. As I climbed in the get-away car after my wedding, it was Grandpa who snuck the cash into my hand for our honeymoon.
As I worked with Grandpa over the years, raking leaves into nice straight rows, snapping beans from his beautiful garden, painting his house, the size of my task growing as I grew, I began to understand the quiet joy of his simple world. Grandpa liked vanilla ice cream. He liked a good cup of coffee just black. He took pride in his small aluminum fishing boat with a fresh coat of green paint on the inside, and was happy to take it to the same lake every year, where the memories were as good as the fishing. He took great pleasure in sitting in his yard as a hot summer day cooled into evening. To see countryside he hadn’t seen before, even if it was only a short drive from home, was as enjoyable as any dream vacation. In this world we are often working to have more, to go further, and when we get there, we find it’s never quite enough.
Grandpa understood the value of life’s simple things, and to spend time with him was like finally catching your breath. Of all the gifts he gave me, the one I gain the most strength from, and the one I most hope to share with others, is the gift of contentment. I have never met a soul more content to walk the path laid before him. When diabetes damaged his eyesight more than 20 years ago, he calmly turned in his driver’s license--a man who had been a driver in the army and a driver for his railroad crew—content to travel the path of his life without complaint. His values were straightforward, he knew a good person when he met one, and he didn’t doubt that heaven was at the end of his path. I don’t doubt it either.
Harold Naylor was a builder, a builder of simple things that last. Go out for ice cream with your family this summer, and order plain vanilla. Nothing fancy, just pure and sweet. In remembering my grandpa, let him remind you no matter what life brings, the simple things are within your reach, and they are good.
