On Kindness, quiet lessons, and the kind of man my grandfather was

As we reflect on this Memorial Day weekend, I am reminded of my grandfather. Honestly, when I think about him, I don’t first think about uniforms or medals. I think about ordinary moments. Apple trees. Saturday mornings. Quiet lessons that seemed small at the time but somehow stayed with me.

I remember vividly the time my grandfather caught boys in our backyard stealing crab apples from our trees. I was young, but I remember that the boys were teenagers and had stolen apples before.

My grandfather ran from the house yelling after them. I thought perhaps he was angry. I was sure that they were in trouble.

The boys scurried away on their bikes. My grandfather continued yelling after them.

Only one came back.

I stood on the side of the house, watching him speak to the boy with stern but kind gestures.

A firm hand on the shoulder.
A finger pointing toward the trees.
A wide swing of the arm, as if to show that the world was big and there was still room for him to make different, better choices.

Direct eye-to-eye contact that gently explained that respect for yourself drives your respect for others.

He corrected without shaming.
He taught instead of humiliating.

At the end of the conversation, the young boy left not with the two apples he had stolen, but with a full sack of apples my grandfather gave him.

I am reminded of that story often.

As a child, I thought the lesson was about apples or stealing. As I’ve grown older, I realize that the lesson is about something far greater.

My grandfather believed in correction without cruelty. Yes, he often jiggled his belt for our attention, but once he had it, he used the opportunity to sow seeds in us as children that stayed with us a lifetime.

Maybe that was part of who he was, not only as a grandfather, but as a veteran as well.

Steady.
Firm.
Respectful.

The kind of man who understood that dignity matters.

A man who believed service was not only something you gave to your country, but something you quietly offered to people every day.

Memorial Day, for me, brings thoughts of service and sacrifice. But this weekend, I find myself also remembering something quieter.

An apple tree.
A young boy.
A lesson offered with dignity instead of shame.

The quiet attributes of a man who believed in service—not only to his country, but to the people around him.

I still think about that boy sometimes.

I believe he walked away with more than the sack of fruit.

I often wonder if the boy remembers the apples.

I know I remember the man.

—J. Lashelle

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