My grandpa was a quiet man. I suspect that everything he said directly to me in the 18 years that my life crossed his would just about fill one 12-pt. Times sheet, standard margins. Grandma did most of the talking. I’m fairly certain Grandpa wasn’t listening to her much of the time. I’m equally certain there was a rich and interesting conversation happening inside his own mind. Most of the time he looked to me to be mildly amused and passingly entertained. I think he enjoyed his own company.
Yet although he said little, I am filled with equal certainty that my grandpa loved me deeply and wholly. I never doubted for a moment his all-embracing love. I spent a couple weeks every summer at my grandparents’ house, and during those weeks I was absolutely steeped in love. All artistic and creative expressions were indulged; I languished in the library left behind by my now-grown-and-out-aunt, whose old room I took over. I played games amid the sun-scented laundry hanging on the line and in and out of the carefully tended garden of flowers in the yard. Grandma was the one who proffered much of this, but her love came with a certain price-tag attached—or rather, an array of admonitions and directives. (Even still, I loved her to pieces.) But Grandpa—there was no price to be paid for his love, no directives made, no admonitions. Could I have gotten away with things? For sure…but I was a ridiculously good, rule-following kid. So I basked unwittingly in the quiet indulgence of a grandpa who just loved me.
It is no small thing to be loved like that. To see the look in someone’s eyes that says, “Golly, I think you’re grand.” To never be spoken to harshly, to never be berated or chastised. And despite the few words spoken, I was never ignored nor overlooked. I know as sure as I’m breathing now that my grandpa loved me from tip to toe—that he loves me still.
I’m likewise certain my grandpa’s children have experiences to share that are unique from mine and perhaps don’t have this same wistful recollection of unconditional, unabashed love. It is different to be someone’s child as opposed to his grandchild. And I know my grandpa had demons to overcome through at least some of his children’s lives. I’m not fully privy to that, nor is that much of the man I know. I know Grandpa’s love. I know him as an avid reader, sitting in his green leather chair, with light through the white-curtained windows filtering over him. I know him quietly puffing his pipe, working in his garage woodshop, puttering with household repairs, salting his food like he had stock in the mines, chuckling at a joke, going for long walks (in which my uncle tells me he could fart at his leisure without recrimination), tearing at the gathering of family, and taking up space in the empty places in my heart that needed filling with love and acceptance and being seen. My grandpa did all that.
When my eldest son was quite small, he told me of a gentle man who visited him. I knew then—I know now—it was Grandpa, despite the many years since he’d been gone. I still feel his presence. I see him too. Both he and Grandma have stayed close in these long years since they’ve been gone. I know Grandpa is looking at me still with those eyes of love—looking at all of his people this way.
Grandpa, I hope you see that’s exactly how I’m looking now as I think of you.
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This is a family photo from days long ago, taken by my Uncle Floyd. Grandpa is center in stripes. I’m the little brunette looking directly back at him–with lots of love.