Morrell Snowball

The other day I had a deep pang of missing Grandpa Snowball. He died last February and it has subsequently been a year of "firsts" without him. Although I don't live in California near my Grandma, I think of her often as she continues the mighty struggle to live alone. Because I grew up living just 10-15 minutes from my grandparents, we were at their house a lot. We celebrated almost every holiday with them. My pool of memories about Grandpa is deep. He was such a good man. Quiet and good natured. Yet stubborn. Persistant. A perfectionist. He would work on a project until it was just how he wanted it. He never (never) did shoddy work.

I remember my mom bringing a belt over to him once that needed another hole. He got out his tools and found the perfect size pin to make a hole the exact size of the others. He was painsaking and deliberate.

He was always that way with his garden. It was a work of art. Their yard is safe haven. I remember when we were little and they would open the hidden pit in their back yard. We would parade the food outside to be set up on card tables. The little ice bucket and stacks of matching melomine plates. The benches with backs that flipped into tables and the special white iron table for two in the gazebo.

I remember trips to Park City in college and staying in the Marriott Hotel. They would pick us up as they drove through Provo and let us spend the weekend. They would take us shopping at the grocery story with them and fill up their cart with all kinds of goodies. I remember on one of those trips watching Grandpa open the breadbag and push down the edges. Then, with the precision with which he does everything, use his pocketknife to cut off and away the inner plastic bag and slide the outer bag up and around the neatly sliced stack of bread.

I remember him sitting me on his knee or putting an arm around me to sing me the saucy little redhead song. I remember sitting by his knee the Sunday before his surgury to remove the tongue cancer as we recorded him singing all his favorite tunes from the 40s. Songs he had sung again and again and for any and every occasion. (A, you're adorble, B, you're so beautiful, C you're a cutie full of charmes...)

He was the candy man. The jars and dishes were always full... and so were his pockets and church I hear.

His wavy grey hair was always neatly combed back, his shirt carefully tucked in, and often matching his shoes. His work clothes always hung from the hooks opposite the mirror in the "kid's bathroom." He was a hard worker. He loved to showoff his garden. He loved to see us smile.

As Grandma would talk and tell stories when we came to visit, he would sit in the green swivle chair opposite her and add a note here or there. He wasn't usually noticibly in the middle of things. But he was.

His wood art--the birds and musical notes he carved--were beautiful and reticent of the things he treasured. Long Beach--home. The music he always sang and the music his wife and daughters filled the home with. Diligence. Attention to detail. Long hard work.

His scriptures and a small trash can sat hidden behind his green chair. The trash can so he could throw away hsi candy wrappers without having to get up. He lived a good life. He loved us unequivically. He loved the gospel. I don't know that ever recall doubting that he had a testimony, even though I also don't ever remember hearing him bear it with words. It was an implicit part of him.

I miss him. I ache to think of Grandma living without him. But I know he isn't really gone. I'll see him again someday. And in the meantime I hope to carry on his legacy, to teach my children about this good and great man who helped shape my childhood and my view of the world. To teach them of the righteousness, the valiency and love and gift for living that he left.