Grandpa, I sat down to write this and I couldn’t find my glasses. Where did those darn things go, anyway? I really needed them because I’ve gotten older and my eyes don’t work as well as they used to. This print is tiny! Well, I finally found my glasses, and guess where? On top of my head!
Grandpa, I like to think that I’ve gotten much of my sense of humor from you. In my earliest memories of you, I see you making me laugh. No one could pretend to be able to take their thumbs apart as convincingly as you. And who else thought to trick a couple of children by telling them the air in Arizona was different than the air in California? No one. I have distinct memories of breathing very heavily as we travelled along the straight, flat road from one state to the other. “Can you tell the difference?” you asked Barrett and me. “Yes!” we shouted as excitedly as only children can. How you must have laughed to yourself.
Your sense of humor evolved accordingly. I remember coming to visit when I was sixteen or seventeen. I had a beloved shirt with the picture of a cup of coffee on it. “Always hot!” said one side of the cup. “Always fresh!” said the other side. You took one look at my shirt and asked, “Oh, are they naming them now?” I was mortified then, but I’m laughing out loud even now as I sit by myself on the couch. The cats must think I’m very strange.
I have so many memories of you, Grandpa. It’s hard to write them all. I was always amazed at how much you knew. I don’t remember what you did in the printing industry, but I remember talking with you at the table about it. I remember you telling me about your experiences in the Navy. But mostly I remember you knowing every flower along the side of the road in Mineral King. You knew every bush and every tree along the Cold Springs nature trail. I still remember the awe with which I smelled my first Jeffrey pine because you said the bark smelled like vanilla. I remember coming home from that first hike in Mineral King a little disappointed because everyone had seen the grouse but me.
It was you who taught me to swim in the pool of the hotel when Ozzy owned it. Growing up I hated chicken. I’m grateful to Dad and Wendy for feeding me, but their chicken was always dry. I looked forward to visiting you and having you grill chicken on the patio because your chicken was always perfect—cooked thoroughly but never dry. That was some skill in my eyes. In the living room one year, you tried to teach me to dance like you dance with Grandma. Was it a four-step? I don’t remember. I was all feet and not used to being led. I very much wish I’d taken the time to learn, and danced with you. Even younger than that, you tried to teach me to tap dance. What fun you were!
There were so many evenings of eating on TV trays while watching Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. So many evenings spent playing Solitaire or playing with dominoes. “Come here,” you would say, and by your tone I had no problem getting up off the floor. Through this window or that, you would point at something come to visit: a doe, usually, but sometimes quail, or a dove in a tree.
There were Fourth of July dinners at Great-Grandpa and Great-Grandma’s during those early years. How else could a six- and seven-year-old feel so comfortable around so many strangers so far from home except that you and Grandma were so loving, kind, and gentle? It was you, Grandpa, who taught me how to patiently win over the most skittish of cats. I have a little Hiss myself now, a little girl cat who won’t let anyone near her except me. And I have a MacArthur too, a strapping boy cat that has never met a stranger. You taught me how to see and how to appreciate nature.
You worked so hard, Grandpa. Year after year I came to visit, and year after year there was work to be done at the Lion’s club. There was yard work and I don’t even know what else. I never paid attention to what you were doing, exactly. It was just pleasant to tag along, to be around you, because there were spider tunnels to look into, or interesting people to meet, or lots of conversation to be had with you.
One day you sat at the table with me when I was eighteen. It was the last summer I visited consecutively; I didn’t visit again until I was twenty-one. “Develop relationships,” you said. “Develop friendships. They will be important in your life.” I cried and didn’t answer. That summer I’d lost several close friends. I’d not yet learned that some people come and go, and only some people come and stay. But I never forgot what you told me. You were right. My friendships and relationships are important; they are one of the most valuable things I have in my life.
It mattered a lot to you that I forgave my mom and moved past the anger. It was hard for me then, but it was so important that you talked to me about those things. I remember being struck with how novel it was that other adults actually liked and approved of my mom; at that time, the only experience I had of adults’ opinions about my mom were the opinions of Dad and Wendy—and those were hardly unbiased. The things you said to me you only said to me once a year, but they really stuck. They came from a place of wisdom and of caring, and I heard them, and they became a part of me. I’ve now fully forgiven my mom and have a very close relationship with her. That is due partly because of you, Grandpa.
There was the epic first trip to the Pacific Ocean. There were fishing holes so secret, I’ve never told anyone for fear of being killed. You tried to teach me how to gut a fish, but I would not! You let me drive around Visalia—you always were a little adventurous. You introduced us to our older brother, with whom I now also have a relationship, thanks to you. There is so much to remember, Grandpa, that you taught me: how to treat people, how to care about them and for them, how to nurture relationships. How to work hard and be happy doing it. How to treasure those evenings when time seems to stop. We would sit for a long time after dinner, waving away meat bees and wondering who was going to finish that last leftover piece. I learned a lot watching you and the time you spent with people: Aunt Marge and Uncle Allen, Ozzy and his first wife, and then Ozzy and Eva. I watched very closely, and learned without knowing I was learning, what to do when a couple you’re close to breaks up. There are so many valuable lessons I have in my being, that I don’t even know I know, because they all came just by watching you.
You are my treasure, Grandpa. I am so blessed, tremendously blessed, to have grandparents who were involved in my life and in my upbringing. I’m even luckier that those involved grandparents were so funny, so engaging, and so adventurous! My time with you was some of the very best time of my life, full of fun and full of growing. I love you dearly. I love you, I love you, I love you. And I will never, never, never forget you, not even when I’m old and can’t find my glasses anymore!
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