Riding With My 99 Year Old Grandfather
Last weekend I hugged my Grandpa for the first time in a year. Next weekend he turns 99 years old. He rides with me almost everyday.
Many people know my Grandpa, Al Larson, as “The Bluebird Man.” For over 50 years, he’s dedicated his life to saving and restoring the Idaho Bluebird population, and he’s become internationally renowned for it. Once in Hawaii, I had a stranger approach me from neighboring restaurant table after hearing me mention his name, “Your Grandpa is Al Larson? He’s like the Elvis Presley of the Bluebird world!”
A week ago my Grandpa visited a clinic in Cascade, ID and got his second shot of Moderna in his right arm. As with many other nonprofit employees that serve at-risk populations, I had already received my second dose, also in my right arm, so when I heard the news, I immediately headed 77 miles up snowy Highway 55 to see him.
It’s been scary not seeing my Grandpa, perhaps my biggest hero, because at 98 years old… who freaking knows how much time you have to wait. I worry sometimes that he’ll be gone and I won’t know all his stories. And then, I won’t be able to share them with his great grandchildren, not mine, but my niece and nephew. He’s not a religious guy, neither am I, but I know his life will live on through his stories and his work. So yes, at almost 99, I worry about his century of unique experiences that might disappear. In the more difficult times of 2020, I also worried about BBP’s experiences and my own. So much felt like it could slip away.
I rode my bike a lot in 2020. It was one of the only things that kept me sane, level, breathing deeply. In 2021, I made goal to ride even more. I think I knew the struggle hadn’t ended, so why not invest in a practice that works - for me - others probably too. I’ve ridden 680 miles so far this year, and probably half of those tugging an 85lb. monster puppy in my klunky bike trailer. Almost every ride, I think about my grandpa, his life and his work.
On my hardest day, when I just want to throw in the towel and pedal into oblivion, I think about his life, the obstacles he faced, and the heavy dark tunnels he’s seen humanity make it through. His life, without a doubt, has been harder than mine. He raised my mom and uncle almost entirely on his own after his wife died, caring for them the best he could, while slowly bending his back at a lumberyard. Before that he fought as a Marine in Korea, before that he fought in the Pacific in WWII (side note, today he captures mice that get into his pantry and releases them 4 miles down the road), before that he worked in a mine, and before that he dropped out of school, I think after 5th or 6th grade, and began selling cardboard boxes found in downtown Boise alleys for nickel a piece. After the long hard first half of his life, he somehow found energy to dedicate his second half to saving tiny Bluebirds. And, he tried so hard that he did, he restored the population to historic levels… one bird and one bird box at a time.
Riding up a snow-banked empty stretch of rural Cascade highway after visiting him, I passed several blue-painted Bluebird boxes nailed to fences posts and wooden creek signs. Were they there because of him? Had his work inspired someone in this area to follow his lead? I stopped to take quick photo. As the sun went down, I thought about his lasting impact, I thought about BBP’s, then I continued riding further up the road, bird boxes and miles from home growing one by one.
When I ride my bike, I spend a lot time processing thoughts and feelings that have accumulated throughout the day, week, year… And I spend a lot of time noticing things. The oval silhouettes of birds in branches almost always catch my eye. Then I think about their world, their journey, where they’ve been, and how far they’ve traveled to be on that branch at that moment. If my Grandpa was riding with me, he would know their story. And if I take a good enough picture, I can sometimes share it with him, and he’ll know all the details. He might even be able to speak their language, a combination of whistles and clicks that have gotten a little deeper as the gaps in his teeth have grown (maybe bird songs get deeper as they age too). If I listen to his encyclopedic knowledge without being distracted by my admiration for the tales told by the lines and sunspots on his face, I can retain bit of information about the photographed bird, and the next time I see it, I might even know its name and a bit of its story. When I do this successfully, it feels like my grandpa is riding with me.
My grandpa lives with my mom in Cascade now. When it was time to go last weekend, I reached my arm around his shoulder and gave him a good but slightly gentler squeeze than usual. “Oh, a hug!” he said. Then nearly 99 years of life transformed into a big well worn smile.
This morning, on my ride into BBP, I saw an American Kestral. Kestrals are America’s smallest falcon, they can live up to 14 years, they often travel 100s of miles to southern states during the winter, and they are declining in population. Learn more about them here, and how you can put a Kestral box in your own back yard to help.
Ride On!
-Jimmy
P.S. Hope you make it out for a ride this weekend. If you do, please join the community-wide Ride On Boise! team and don’t forget to log your miles! If you do venture out, keep eye out for oval silhouettes.