Albert

Van Dyke Brown Print - of Albert Hetrick late 1980s. © Wendy Wetherbee

Today would have been my maternal grandfathers birthday. We lost him to cancer just as I was graduating college. I had focused a good deal of my final year in art school on portraits of him (one is pictured at top). My affection for him was tinged with a good deal of fear. He was quick to temper and I was always on alert, for fear of the razor strap. Though he never touched me the fear was real.

He was incredibly smart, incredibly strong, hardworking and earthy.

He could name every growing thing and tell you how long it had been since a deer track was made. Never without his thermals, even in the summer and his deerskin fringe jacket still hangs in my closet. His stetson hat lives with my sister.

He hunted often with a bow. Not a new-fangled compound bow that makes things easy - an actual bow that requires a great deal of strength and accuracy. I still have it along with some deer antlers that he kept over the years. He also loved rifles, and took his share of deer kills with them. I ate more venison as a kid than I care to remember and will happily never eat it again.

A farmer who kept bees, hunted for game and raised rabbits for meat and pets. Rabbit is another thing I will never (thankfully) ever have to eat again. No matter crispy fried it was, it was not as I was told, chicken. I always wanted to pet the giant Dutch lops with their long ears and sad faces but I was not allowed. My grandfather knew that my heart was too soft. And I would get attached to what might be on my plate the next day.

My grandfather was a beloved and oft feared history teacher that was prone to quiz us as kids to see how knowledgeable we were on the birth of our country. (spoiler alert... we weren't all that knowledgeable).

He loved a debate more than almost anything, the more controversial the better. He had a sharp mind and was quick to laugh if the mood was right.

He rarely had an extra nickle for frivolity, but when he wanted a root beer float, there had best be vanilla ice cream and root beer in the house, because everyone was gonna have a root beer float... whether we wanted one or not. (I hate root beer - but you did not say no to grandpa). You also and without fail, finish what is on your plate. You would see it for breakfast the next day if you did not.

I still relish the sound of his laugh and the sly look on his face when we would pull into the frozen custard place that we passed on the way back from the farm. He’d bump into the parking lot in the pickup with his dirty sweaty grand-daughters and he would buy everyone a custard for a hard days work. Even though most of the time we were off finding trouble or digging for arrowheads.

He raised beagles, that howled and yipped and were meant not as pets but as working dogs, for game hunting. Rabbits and squirrels and such. I always wanted to play with the pups but wasn’t allowed - for the same reasons that I couldn't play with the rabbits. I was too soft for the animals.

His honey was divine, and I loved checking the buzzing hives with him. Hoping for some comb, warm and dripping from the summer heat.

Our relationship was riddled with ripples of fear, and a very deep divide of opinion on many things, but it was also filled with love and respect. They really dont make them like him anymore.

Miss you Albert.