Wow, so many things have happened since I last blogged about my life. My grandfather left this mortal life the end of May. He was truly an awesome man. I know that people generally speak saintly of the deceased, but he was a one-of-a-kind person. I have some fond memories of him. We lived in a huge house in Corona, CA and I remember how he used to sleep in the basement (yes, a house in CA with a basement) and he befriended all the spiders. Instead of just squishing them like most of us would have liked, he would carefully scoop them up into the palm of his hand and pet it. He would often name them Hairy or Hervey (I think the last one is correct – my brother said he remembered that name but I remember Hairy).
At that same house lived some of my cousins; ones that I regard like siblings. We would squelch the balmy southern CA summers by water fights. Not your regular kind of water fights, but ones that involved tipping over the picnic table and benches for shelters (I would like to blame TV shoot outs for this idea); dumping out trash cans and using the hose to fill them up (where we would dunk our prisoners); palm frawns strewn all over the yard; oh and the hose as the weapon of choice and was desperately fought for. Our watery fights went on for kid hours. Now one thing I feel I should mention is that my grandpa took great care and pride in his yard. As an adult I tried to figure out why our parents let us run a muck soggifying the lawn; the answer came when I had kids: anything to get them out of the house and giving them a moment’s respite. We could be in the middle of attacking and defending ourselves and the words shouted out the back door of, “Grandpa is on his way home!!” would momentarily freeze us as if someone hit the pause button of our own rendition of WWIII. That is when pandemonium broke loose; we had to get the yard picked up and then run to the backyard where we would pretend we have been playing on the swing set the whole time. Even though our ruse probably didn’t work, grandpa never yelled at us kids. Now whether he yelled at our parents is another story – I have no clue and figure the way our parents would freak out and alert us of his impending homecoming is enough of an answer; ‘nuff said.
Another comical memory I have of grandpa just so happens to include the same cousin cohorts; albeit, many years later and in a different house and state. I was living with my cousins for a few months and my uncle and aunt decided they needed a rendezvous to some sort of Anniversary Inn type place so they put me in charge, with the explicit instructions that at night, grandpa would come over and sleep in the house, just in case. After all, I was only 15 and couldn’t drive. Even though we all adored my grandpa, we loved him as a nighttime babysitter since he was hard of hearing. Six kids + one almost deaf babysitter = mischief. We took advantage of when he wasn’t there and some sort of wild-dog syndrome broke out. I made chicken, gravy and rice for dinner. I declared it was barbaric night and no silverware was to be used. The kids really enjoyed this; gravy and all. That caused a ripple effect of even more crazy behavior. Pretty soon we were playing a game that I made up called “Name That Tune – Gargle Style.” We took turns gargling our drinks one at a time as the others tried to guess what song we were pathetically trying to imitate. Amidst all the merriment, someone got the idea to start a food fight. Rice and chunks of chicken now spotted the carpet. RING. We went to answer the phone and it was grandpa letting us know he was on his way over. Panic-stricken faces, we scrambled to pick up the proof of our messy festivities. Unfortunaltey, my aunt’s dining room was down a small flight of about about six stairs from the kitchen. We skipped up and down those steps trying to clear the table and I can’t remember if someone attempted to vacuum up wet grains of rice. I blame the haste for the foggy memories of this evening. One thing though, didn’t haze over time: the A-1 Sauce incident. For whatever reason, we had A-1 Sauce with us on the table and whomever closed the lid did a sorry job and the poor schmuck who was trotting up the stairs carrying it tripped and the bottle hit the floor at the top of the stairs, spilling a good portion of its tangy sauce. Everyone froze, again with the pause button, and in that split second of limbo, we all came to the same conclusion and like robots in unison, we began scooping it up and sponging the murderous scene. It looked pretty good when we got through with it. Grandpa got there shortly thereafter and we all tried to look innocent. Being the awesome grandpa he was he didn’t question of guilty faces. I guess he figured the house wasn’t burned down, everyone was clothed and fed, so all was well with him.
As I mentioned, Grandpa was hard of hearing and had been all of my life that I can remember. My mom, aunt and grandpa went to ASL classes at Riverside Community College so he would be able to communicate as he got older. He went but I don’t think he got much out of that because in the decades since the class I never saw him sign. I always felt bad for my grandpa because he would sit around our loud and oft time boisterous family gatherings and tried to understand what we were all talking about or laughing at. He would just sit there and smile. I used to feel awkward when he would ask me questions because I would have to speak louder than I normally do (for those that know me, I am not a quiet person). I often had to repeat myself several times and once in a while I could tell that he got tired of trying to decipher what I was saying and would settle for smiling and bobbing his head, as if he could hear what I said. Now with that said, it was quite comical trying to talk to him on the phone. I don’t recall very many personal conversations of him an I on the phone, but I remember hearing my mom trying to talk to him on the phone. She would have to yell loudly into the receiver and if it was something not really desirable to keep repeated, it was embarrassing, so my mom would never fill up the conversations with trifle things – just meaty important ones.
Even with all the yelling to get him to hear us, he was a very silent man. Opposed to the person with headphones on and can’t hear someone talking to them and increase their own output without realizing they that loud, my grandfather always spoke softly. He was genuinely concerned with his family and loved us very much.
I remember that when he came down to CA for Adam’s funeral, he had a knowing look in his eye; he knew the agony I was going through and wished he could take it from me. His first wife died when their child was only 4. From then on, we shared a common generation-slashing sort of bond.
I had the chance to drive up to SLC when I heard he was in the hospital so I could be in the room when they took him off the machines, but something inside me, something deep, wouldn’t let me. I feel it is two reasons deep: One, I have a very difficult time seeing people dying. I am afraid it will dig too deep in my carefully medicated wounds and cause them to bleed. The second reason is that I wanted to remember him as a live and happy person. My last memory of him was probably one of the best ones I have from these recent years. I was up in SLC last summer and swung by his new home to visit before I continued my trip to WA like I do every summer. I sat down in the basement (where he lived with my grandma; minus spiders – this was a new house) next to him and although I can’t recall the specifics of our conversation, I am sure he asked how I was doing; he always did when we spoke. We probably discussed my girls and how Bill was doing. Yet, even with the Swiss cheese memories of our conversation, it was one that will always sit in my heart and keep a fire going strong.
Goodbye, Grandpa. I love and miss you.
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