The Joshua Tree

Some of you may remember the 1973 Chevy van.

Some of you may have dated me when I drove the 1973 Chevy van.

The van, of course, belonged to my grandfather, and it took me many places. Once, in the early 1980s, the van took me on a weekend trip with my grandparents to the high desert of Southern California. Just beyond the pretentious shimmer of Palm Springs, east and to the north, lay the raw expansiveness of the Joshua Tree National Monument. It's more of a park really, filled with, and named for, the upward-rising aboriginal trees of the region.

My grandparents gave me time to climb giant boulders and chase vicious looking lizards. However, my grandfather also took the opportunity, as he often did, to teach me a few things along the way. Geology. Botany. Theology. Photography. He was especially generous with his very expensive camera equipment, and showed me how the knobs and buttons worked.

That's what he did. It was who he was. He was a teacher, not by trade, but rather by birthright. With the exception of perhaps Carl, he was the smartest person I've ever known, and he freely shared the fruits of his knowledge for the pure benefit of others, as often as he could.

He could fix anything. Anything. Mechanical. Electrical. Plumbing. Wood. Metal. I once saw him repair a Volkswagen air pump with scrap parts from a Ford fuel pump. He once took his pick up apart and reassembled it, just for kicks. He built his own computers, and could hang dry wall.

He tried to impart this knowledge upon me. I tried to learn as much of it as I could.

He also had a passion for travel, and drove that Chevy van more than once to all of the far corners of this continent. Sometimes he took me with him.

Which leads to one of his favorite stories.

It was 1987, and I was forced against my will to pile into that Chevy van with the whole family for a lengthy excursion to the distant Pacific Northwest. Vancouver Island, to be exact, although I was dragged through Oregon and Washington to get there.

I was 16 years old, and very unhappy about all of this. See, school was out, I had a driver's license, and Dr. B had his parent's house to himself for those two weeks. The last place I wanted to be was in that van. So, I slept on the back bench most of each day, like a prisoner, interacting only when necessary.

It was also just after the release of U2's "The Joshua Tree," and I played that cassette tape endlessly on my Walkman, while awake, headphones firmly planted in protest over my ears.

At some point, somewhere in Washington, I woke up. We were stopped, and most of the family was out of the van. I looked up. We were on some sort of bridge over some river.

"There's a submarine passing under the bridge. Folks are getting out to look, if you're interested." Said my grandfather, as he was stepping out.

"Whatever, I've seen submarines." I responded. "I mean, if it was a Trident, that would be interesting..."

He left me to wallow. I returned to my music.

However, after the warship had long since passed, he returned to the van and casually announced that it was, in fact, a Trident submarine, but he knew I was busy and didn't want to bother me.

Old man: 1
Jackass teenager: 0

I wasn't surprised when I got the call from my mom tonight. Grandpa died peacefully in his sleep this evening, having had the opportunity to say good bye to everyone he knew. He did a lot of good, and helped a lot of people. He saw many places, and knew many things.

He will be missed.