On a tribute to my grandfather: Actions are so much louder than words

I have been thinking a lot about my grandfather Ventura of late. My grandfather, my father's father was an unusual man. He was one of those people that seem larger than life by their very presence, and not by their seemingly inexhaustible energy, exuberance or loud abrasive behaviour. He was like a deep river carrying along wisdom and life everywhere he went. His hawk like roman features weathered by the elements. He was a man familiar with hard work, struggle and loss. I remember how after my grandmother passed he would make his way to her grave site faithfully, devoted. He would tend her grave lovingly as if it was his dear wife. He had eyes that would pierce right through you. Near the time he passed away my father brought him over to visit. I think he knew it was nearly time for my grandfather and wanted us to have some time with him before it was too late. Near the end of his visit he decided to work in the garden. He would not be dissuaded. Old and fragile he trimmed back an overgrown thorn bush that had encroached the side of the house. His skin torn and back bent, my father pleaded with him to stop and rest but my grandfather would have nothing of it. I remember him lying on his bed, weary but content. He looked at me over his hawk like nose. At the time I didn't understand that he was teaching us. He was letting his actions instruct us. Actions are so much louder than words. His lesson was about doing the right thing, about having passion until the end. It was about doing the hard work that sometimes life requires and not stopping until the goal has been achieved. I loved him then and I still do. That summer I planted a lemon verbena tree in the garden and made him some tea from its leaves. It was invigorating and I could see he was pleased. My grandfather, a champion of life.