Let Me Tell You About Grandpa Fellows

"Each happiness of yesterday is a memory for tomorrow."

It seems that I did not take a single picture this Memorial holiday. I did find a few from last year.

I no longer weep at my dad's grave when we visit on Memorial Day. Time is the great healer. But I do get a little sad, because to my children, this grave they are visiting represents someone a little nebulous to them. 

It is the grave of the grandfather they never knew. I don't know that they fully understand that there are parts of them that came from this man that they've never met. But I see it. I see my children, and sometimes I see glimpses of my father. They don't know that some of their most remarkable traits may very well have come from this elusive grandpa that lingers on the other side.

I try to remind my girls, as they draw beautiful pieces of art, that their grandfather was also an amazing artist. I struggled through an art class in 7th grade. (Apparently the artistic gene skipped a generation) I can remember bringing my meager still-life drawing home to my dad in hopes that he could somehow salvage it. A few strokes of the pencil, and it was a masterpiece. 

As my son gets up in front of people and seems to be a natural born public speaker, I am reminded that his grandfather could keep a congregation or a classroom riveted with his poignant analogies and his knack for public speaking. He was a remarkable story-teller. Many a night, I sat spell-bound as Dad recounted his tales of adventure in the Uintah mountains. He delighted us with stories of lost gold mines and his strange encounters with Sasquatch and mountain lions. So when Spencer won the story-telling contest in both the 3rd and 4th grade, there was no question where this gift came from.

When Jonah troubles me with his meticulous and perfectionistic nature, I am reminded of a grandfather who may very well have passed his traits on to his grandson. Dad would walk in from work and go straight to the curtains, where he would begin to straighten them. He would pick up any tiny pieces of lint off the carpet as he would make his way to the bedroom. He would then carefully change out of his suit, putting everything into its proper place before relaxing for the evening. He never needed an alarm. He woke up at the same time everyday, and the man was never late. We were always the first ones to church, the first ones to family parties. All six children were always dressed and ready to go promptly 30 minutes before any event, because Dad hated to be late.

When we sit at the kitchen table, where wit and sarcasm abound, I remind the kids that their grandpa had quite a sense of humor. It was subtle, and it was quiet, but it could send you into side-splitting laughter.

I try to help them know this Ricky Clayton Fellows. He is more than a name etched on a grave marker. He was a living breathing person who has a story. He had quirks, quirks that are alive in his children and grandchildren. 

I remind them of their grandfather who loved the mountains. He was most content when he was fishing, or hiking, or spelunking. 

He was an avid reader. When I picture him, I can see him in his recliner, with a book in hand, usually McConkie or Nibley or something about the Lost Rhoades Mines, always non-fiction.

 He was a gentle soul. Though he grew up hunting, he spent the last few years of his life hunting fossils while his brothers hunted deer. It just broke his heart to destroy those majestic animals. He treated others with kindness. He served and served and served. He was always at someone's house helping them finish a basement or shingle a roof, or he was pulling money out of savings to help another family.

He had a contemplative spirit. You would often find him outside on a warm summer's evening, "thinking the situation over", he would call it. It was a privilege to get to sit and think or talk the situation over with Dad on occasion. 

He loved food. Loved food. After we were tucked into bed at night, we would often hear the blender going. Dad loved a malt before bed. You were a lucky soul if you snuck into the kitchen and were allowed a swallow of that milkshake. With six kids, such a privilege was a rarity. The first thing out of his mouth when I would come home from a date was, "What did you order for dinner?" I could sense that he was vicariously enjoying that meal as I would describe the delicious entree.

He was one of the few people I know who was good at everything. He was incredibly artistic, but also incredibly logical. He was extremely intelligent. He graduated at the top of his class. He was musical and had a beautiful singing voice. He was good at sports. He worked well with his hands. He was charismatic and witty, but also quiet and unassuming. He was a good writer and good at mathematics. 

Above all, he had an unshakeable testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ. He did not rest his scriptures. His faith in the Savior did not waver, and it carried him through life and into death.

My children will meet him someday. I hope that he will instantly be familiar to them. And then they will understand who they came from and why they are the way they are. Until then, I will continue to tell them marvelous stories of their Grandpa Fellows.