The House He Built

Time never slows down, never ceases it’s endless march forward; its passage leaves none of us entirely unscathed. We have times of happiness as well as times of sorrow; both being a fundamental element of life. Time itself is relative, and hard to explain; we base it on the movement of our planet, and its movement around the sun. Time is a creation of our own device, and it is the one thing we fear above all else, for it always catches up to us. Sometimes we get so caught up in the every day mayhem, that we forget to look around and appreciate where we are and where we’ve been. But if we were to scale it up to our movement through our own galaxy, let alone the universe, we would quickly lose any sense of scale and realize how small we really are in an endless sea or stars. Often it’s only when it’s too late that we take the time to reminisce, and to think about the things we wish we could have done. Time doesn’t always have to be the enemy however, it can also be our friend, for time heals all wounds. It also gives us a chance for reflection and remembrance, and a chance to learn and a chance to rejoice.

I talk about time, and reminiscence because my grandfather, Francis Ripperger recently passed away at the ripe age of 80 years old. He did a great number of things in his life, and me being a grandchild, I got to witness a few. One of the many things he did was building his own home, a cabin up in the woods at the top of a hill. The cabin was my home away from home all throughout my childhood and even into my early adult years. It still is a place I love to go to slow down, get away from the hustle and bustle of life, and spend a little time with nature.
More than two decades have passed since I first remember staying there with my sister and cousins. We would spend weeks at a time there, building fires, fishing, camping, and loving every second of it. Pappy would keep the fire going for us when we would all still be sleeping and Granny would cook food for us over the fire. I remember as a little boy, waking up at 5 or 6 in the morning when staying with my grandparents. Pappy would already be up and have breakfast ready to go; always bacon and scrambled eggs with a side of toast. After that me and Granny would sit in her recliner to watch the morning cartoons (Bugs Bunny and the gang) while Pappy would go out and do all those things that Pappy could do. Whether he was mowing the lawn or fixing the lawn mower, chopping down trees or fixing the chain saw, splitting wood to later be stacked or losing the wedge under the leaves, feeding the cattle hay or throwing dog food to the fish, he was always up on his feet moving. He never sat still for more than twenty minutes at a time, always moving from one project to the next.


If, on those rare occasions that he did sit down, you started a conversation with him, you had better be prepared and block out at least an hour of your time. He could talk and talk and talk, bouncing from one subject to the next, hardly stopping to catch his breath. I can remember stopping out at the cabin one weekend, can’t remember what for but I remember not really having plans, and I sat down in the basement kitchen. Pappy came in, and we (he) started talking. Three hours later I think he finally decided he needed to get back outside and get back to work. I loved every second of it. Nowhere to rush off to, nothing gnawing at the back of my mind telling me I needed to make an excuse to leave, just time to sit and listen to all the stories he had to tell and all the wisdom he had to share. Any more, that doesn’t seem to be the case. There always seems to be something else going on, something keeping you from getting too comfortable wherever you are.


Pappy built the cabin(and some), was always mowing, weed eating, splitting wood, never not moving, not always doing things in the safest manner. He’s knocked himself silly, cutting limbs out of trees that swung back on him and dislocated shoulders. He rolled quads on himself while riding around on the hills and through the creeks. The worst accident was a terrible hay bailing accident, when a tractor started in gear and caught his leg up. He ended up losing the leg, but after some time and healing, he was right back out doing the same things he did before the accident. He would still weed eat the hills and the sides of the pond and mow the lawn, he still split wood and stack it for winter, he still fixed his chainsaws and other tools. He still never stopped moving and he only slowed down when his leg started hurting him and he’d have to go relax in his recliner for a little while.

He did a number of things and more in his lifetime. He was a stationed in Korea, he worked as a driver for Pepsi for several decades, he was a store owner, he was a handy man, and many other things besides. He was also a father, and a grandfather, and a great grandfather who loved all of his family. He raised his children to be loving and caring, and they in turn passed it onto us. He will be missed immensely, and the hole he leaves will never be filled. But with the passage of time, and the hope that we will see him again, the pain will start to fade, to be replaced with the joy of remember all the wonderful things he did and the impact he made on all of us.
The wood on the cabin is a little darker now, a little softer in places, stained by time and weather, but it still stands as a testament to what a man can do with some hard work and a supporting family.

