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Granddad was a Monk
My granddad, Wayne Foster, would have been 100 years old today — a day full of 9s: 9/9/19. Serendipitously, I happen to be in San Francisco and was able to visit the Ukiah/Cloverdale area where four generations of Fosters are from. I drove through Santa Rosa where he courted my grandmother. I saw the hills where he hunted wild boar and cougars — and once stood down a pack of wild dogs. Coincidentally, Granddad was the age I am now (nearly 49) when he fulfilled his dream of owning his own ranch and moved his family from the Ukiah area to Roseburg, Oregon.
I used to view Granddad as distant, aloof, intimidating. Unbreakable mountain; tough like they rarely make them these days. Not that he wasn’t those things. But my own maturing has given me a different perspective. Today, I would describe Granddad as this … a monk.
Like a monk, Granddad prized silence, stillness and solitude.
Granddad was mostly silent. In the hundreds of rides in his pick-up (always a white Chevy), he never once turned on the radio. We would drive for miles without conversation. At the dining room table, he didn’t participate much in small talk. He would just eat his meal, read the mail, flip through a newspaper. But he would also break his silence with funny stories and observations. I have come to almost worship silence. I weary quickly of the sound of talking — mine and others.
