By Sean M. Sanford

seanmsanford.com

Gnarlitude comes in three’s. My dad used to say that. A lot of times when something brutal would happen, he would offer, “Well, let’s see what comes next.” One year, 2003, we were met with such three’s.

I remember standing with my dad in front of our pond, where he had taken me for a walk; a daily ritual suggested by my rehab doctors after a month and a half hiatus from consciousness (don’t drink and drive). He told me that a decades-long legal battle between family members was finally being quelled by a judge, resulting in my dad having to take out a mortgage on the ranch that two generations of our family had been born and raised on. My dad was a teacher then, and California’s Grey Davis had just decided that teachers weren’t all that useful, resulting in budget cuts to schools that forced massive lay-offs. My dad lost his job within a few days of being approved for the loan.

“We’ll get through it. Let’s just wait for number three and hope it’s not any worse.” A few months later my grandpa Leon, one of the most beloved men in our family’s history, passed away. My sister Marnie had been on a road trip and his few flashes of any recognition of reality were when he’d ask how she was doing, and when she would be back home. He died within a week of her return.

That was Number Three, and it hit us hard. Especially my dad. His dad had always been his rock. Over the years my dad had gone through drug addition, cancer, and a troublesome career-change, to name a few. And he always had his pops to lean on. My grandpa Leon was always there for him, and now Brian was suddenly drifting without an anchor.

My dad started coming down with Insomnia, depression, a loss of appetite, and probably a slew of other ailments that he tried to ignore and never spoke of. The one thing that still spurred his appetite was tacos, and there was a bar a few towns over that had Taco Tuesday; all you can eat. It had become a weekly lunchtime ritual for my dad and I, and the only way I could assure that he was putting food in his face.

My grandpa’s birthday was not long after he passed away, and I knew it was going to be hard on my dad that first year. I called him up and, even though it wasn’t a Tuesday, asked if he wanted to go get some tacos at Peterson’s Corner. He was into it. That bar was on the way to a camping spot our family had always gone to, Sally’s Place, in the deep cuts of the Yuba River. My grandpa had worked for the forestry service of the Southern Pacific Railroad and had the skeleton key for all the locked gates of California’s protected forests. Our camping spot was deep within such a forest. You needed four-wheel drive to barge it, and whenever we were there, I always felt like we were in another dimension, completely separated and protected from the outside world. After our taco feast I asked my dad if he wanted to go to Sally’s Place for grandpa, as it had been, in a way, my grandpa (and my dad’s) closest thing to a church.

As we made way down the dirt road on our way to the forested beach, we were both absorbed in thoughts and memories of Leon. He had been, and still is, a remarkably special person to us. We shared memories, tried to be casual about our tears, and aiming to focus on the beauty of the woods around us.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a black bear went lumbering across the road maybe 30 feet in front of us. My dad erupted with more life than I had seen in him since my grandpa died. “Did you see that?!” he proclaimed. “Holy shit that bear! How about that?!” I grinned, as I had pissed and moaned to both my dad and grandpa since I was a little dude that I’d never seen a bear in real life. Until then.

My dad was like a child on Christmas. “You know that grandpa Leon was back there in those woods just now, and he just smacked that bear on the ass and said, ‘Here they come. GO!’” He sat, reflected, and said, “That was grandpa Leon.”

He was elated that whole day. We went down to the river, just marveling at the unfiltered beauty that the area pulsed, all to the soundtrack of the murmuring Yuba. We both talked about how it felt like grandpa Leon was right there with us that whole time, and I know that he was. It was such a special time that my dad and I shared, when we were able to let our sorrows step aside for the day, and be submerged in Love for Leon Sanford, one of the greatest men we’d known.

Sean is one of the warmest and kindest people you could ever meet, and it bleeds through the pages of his phenomenal writing. We are happy to have him as a regular on the website, and are always grateful for him and his talents. Click the image below to check out Sean’s website and his awesome book “A Manbaby’s Requiem”!