My Grandpa

I was cleaning carpets when my mom called Thursday afternoon. 

Christmas morning was magical. 🎄

Then, what can only be described as a "series of unfortunate events," unfolded.  Car problems, sleepless nights, children vomiting, super sick mom (never a good thing), unidentifiable rotten smell somewhere in the house threatening to take away my sanity… 

Which brings me back to Thursday afternoon.  

Extremely ill.  Cleaning carpets. 

I turned off the carpet cleaner and answered the phone. 

“Hey, mom.  What’s up?”

“I just got a phone call from my brother.  My dad passed away this afternoon.” {Silence} “I’m heading home to pack my bags.  I was planning to drive down tomorrow to visit my parents for Christmas, but I’m going a day early now.  I will leave as soon as I can get my things together.” 

She continued to talk as emotion filled her voice, relaying details from the past week or two of his life.  I listened and tried to take it all in.  How does one ever fully absorb that kind of information?  Perhaps everyone’s experience is a bit different. 

Shock

Hysteria

Anger

Pain

Sadness 

One of my sisters started sobbing uncontrollably.  My mom had to tell her to take a deep breath before she could continue talking.  

Numb

For me, there is always an emotional disconnect – a numbness – that occurs when I am given bad news.  Surreal.  As if I’m swirling above myself, witness to my mortal body standing, holding the phone and listening. 

That numbness serves as a protective mechanism while I wrap my head around the information I’m being given and attempt to process it.  And then comes the flood.  My emotions return like a desert summer storm – swift, powerful and overwhelming.  The waves of emotions continue to ebb and flow as memories and reality of his death hit me over and over again throughout the day.  

My grandpa is gone.  After 87 years, he has left this mortal life.  A legacy.  I knew he wouldn’t live forever.  I knew this day would come.  He’s lived a full life.  He’s been tired of this mortal existence for a long time and was not shy to tell you how ready he was to move on.  But I’m going to miss him.  A lot. 

This was the last time I saw my grandpa (on my way out the door to go hiking with my friend, Lisa)

I LOVE that we were laughing together...even if it was due to his lack of cooperation at taking a picture with me.  

Grandpa was one of a kind.  He loved garage sales and bargains.  He drove grandma crazy with his constant treasure-finding, but it was a trait that soon became endearing to the rest of us.  His great grandchildren were the proud recipients of many random ceramic creatures they excitedly picked out and brought home.  Grandpa was not the type to sit still for very long.  He always had a new project.  One year it was hauling a stuffed bear to state and county fairs. Later, it was raising pigeons and chickens in the backyard.  Now that I am a grown woman myself, I have to say my grandmother is an absolute saint!  She tolerated my grandpa’s crazy ideas and projects much better than I would have.  

Grandpa was a working man.  He dug ditches and could work a backhoe like no one ever. I’m not even sort of kidding.  A few years ago, a man who knew my grandpa told me, "Your grandpa could scratch someone's back with a backhoe and not leave a single mark behind.  That's how good he was."  The man was a legend working with big machines back in his glory days.   He loved working with his hands and using what he had on hand to fix something.  I cannot count the number of boats, trailers, RV’s and other vehicles he brought home over the years to fix up.  He also loved fishing, a fact that permanently bonded Dylan to his great grandfather forever.    

Last March, I took Dylan down to visit my grandparents for his birthday.  One day, we headed into town to get some clothes from JC Penney (where my grandma used to work).  Grandma pulled her white Cadillac out of the garage a little too close to the minivan and scraped all the way down the side as she backed out.  I assured her it was not a big deal since the van is old and worn out.  “It’s fine, Grandma.  We’re just hoping the engine lasts a little while longer.  Don't worry about it.”  She panicked a bit, turned her steering wheel the other way and pulled forward in an attempt to avoid doing any more damage.  In the process, the rim of the Cadillac grabbed hold of the protective shield on the bottom of the van and peeled it up until it was folded open at a 90 degree angle.  😳
Grandma was devastated.  In fact, I hesitated to tell this story for fear of embarrassing her.  But to fully appreciate my grandpa, you have to hear the whole story...  

By this point in time, grandpa used a motorized wheelchair when he was outside.  He kept a couple of them in the garage so he could get around more quickly. As Grandma put the Cadillac back into reverse to once again try to avoid doing more damage to the van, Grandpa comes racing up the driveway in his “Jazzy” to see what happened. Grandpa slowly shook his head back and forth (not really upset, but more in a “What in the world am I going to do with this woman” kind of way), steers the jazzy over to the side of the van, lifts his foot up and proceeds to kick the side of the van a couple of times.  The protective shield (or whatever it’s called) bounced right back out at a 90 degree angle, completely unfazed by grandpa’s kicking.  Dylan and I did our best to keep from busting out laughing as we watched grandpa take in the details of a new problem he would spend the afternoon trying to solve.  

We returned from our shopping spree to find a great big screw holding the panel of the van in place.  Grandpa drove the jazzy over to fill me in on the happenings, “I put a screw in the side panel for you.  That should hold it in place and keep it from flapping in the wind for your drive home.  You’ll have to take it in and have it replaced.  Just send grandma the bill.”  I never did take the van in to be fixed.  I still have a screw in the side of the van holding that panel in place.  I smile fondly and think of my grandpa every time I open my door.   

My grandpa.  Gramps.  I’m not sure what age you have to be to catch a glimpse of the true man.  Perhaps anyone could if they looked hard enough.  For me, it didn’t take much more than a smile or hug to see past the politically incorrect, cussing man with strong opinions and no filter.  He had a hard outer shell, but inside he was nothing but goo.  Grandkids and great grandkids were particularly good at finding the inner core where he would melt like butter in the palm of their hand.

A little piece of my heart belonged to my grandpa.  That part of my heart is broken, aching, and longing for a big bear hug embrace just one more time.  I love you, grandpa!  Till we meet again.