My grandpa passed away Friday night. He was 96, and ill, and so it was not surprising or even, to me, particularly sad. I was thankful that we had visited with him a few months ago, prior to his foray into the hospital and nursing home, while he was still at home and still able to discuss the oil business with my husband.
My grandpa was not the kind of grandpa to bounce me on his knee, or to play with me, or even to smile much. He was, to be completely frank, a gruff and grumpy man. He would sit at the head of the dinner table, in complete silence, not joining in the dinner table conversation or even acknowledging that other people were there. His plate was always filled, not by him. My grandma would sit beside him, only sometimes asking if he wanted more before filling his plate. He was a teetotaller, but also extraordinarily health conscious, so when he read that red wine was good for the heart, he purchased a gigantic jug of cheap, sweet Kelowna Royal Red. After dinner he would pour himself half a cup of that swill, directly into the glass that he had just drained of milk.
Just thinking about that makes me smile.
He was essentially useless in the kitchen. I very much doubt that he could have made himself a sandwich. But once, many years ago, my younger brother and I were encamped in his living room, embarking on what was probably our fiftieth round of Rummikub, bored out of our trees on that Christmas holiday. My mother had taken my grandma shopping, and yet we heard an immense amount of banging and rustling from the kitchen. We exchanged looks and continued with our game. After thirty minutes of that noise, my grandpa emerged, carrying a plastic bowl of tortilla chips. “Here,” he said gruffly, “You kids like these.”
He rarely acknowledged that he liked anything, but if he did, he would say “That’s pretty good.” When I received my master’s degree, he said that it was “real good”. And once, once I was visiting them at Easter. I was a teenager at the time, and I came to the breakfast table dressed in a skirt, ready for the church service. “Well,” he said, “Well. You’ll be the prettiest girl at church today.” He never said anything like that in my hearing before or since.
He was divorced, with four children – the youngest was my father – in a time and place where that would have been considered somewhat unusual. He married my grandma, who was a widow with six children. I am one of thirty one grandchildren. There are lots of great grandchildren and even some great-great grandchildren. I lost count. He liked having family around him, even though he didn’t show it in a particularly conventional way.
He was gruff and silent, and he had a huge family and a long life. I will always smile when I think of my grumpy grandpa.
