My roots--the treasure

My mom left this week for a trip out west to North Dakota, where she grew up. I have been thinking about my roots since before I posted last. I wrote previously about where I came from on my dad's side--rural Connecticut. My paternal grandfather was the quintessential New Englander. He was the do-it-yourself farmer, with tendencies toward intellectual elitism. He was uncomfortable with emotion and did not show affection well. I think he did not know what to do with his grandchildren, who in many ways displayed artistic "bents." I still have unresolved feelings about him. I never felt close to him. He frightened me in some ways, disappointed me in other ways. but I do have some pride in his strength and fortitude. I am his progeny, so some of his strength (as well as his disdain) is mine. He is my backbone.
My heart is another story.
My mother's father was a child of the prairie. He and his brother were the younger set of half siblings. During WWII, he moved his family to California to the San Diego area. There he worked in a factory which made airplanes for the war. He took a lot of pride in his work there, but he missed home. So after the war he brought his family back to the open skies of North Dakota. When I knew him, he was newly widowed from my grandma (I have only vague memories of her). He was retiring from his work as a diesel mechanic. And he had taken up a new hobby--beekeeping.
It's kind of funny. I saw my CT Grampa several times a year while I was growing up, but the feelings that I have for him are at best undefined. I could probably count on two hands the number of times that I actually saw my ND Grampa, but I can honestly say that I adored that man (I still do). I know I was cherished by him whenever I saw him. I remember him getting on his hands and knees and playing with me. He visited my family in NH when I was in elementary school. I remember him walking with me to school and listening to me. He would hug me freely. He would spend time with me.
The last time I saw him was when I had gone to ND after my step-grandma had died. By then he was suffering the affects of Alzheimer's. The morning that I left, I was hugging him good-bye. He looked intently into my eyes and told me most assuredly "I will never forget you."
He passed away one year later. All his grandchildren were his pallbearers.
I treasure the memories that I have of my Grampa. The only regret that I have is that there are not more of them.