Tribute

Vicki said that she loved how Grandpa Loren used to call everyone George. I thought about that. He used to call me George. I sat on his lap and patted his potbelly, it was taught like a drum. I called it George. I wrapped my arms around his neck and nuzzled his prickly face. I ran my fingers along the stiff rivets of his gelled, wavy hair on the top of his head. He didn’t gel the back of his hair, so it was shiny and soft. I caress it like the down on my bunny’s neck. My mother says that she hopes she will get her Dad’s beautiful white hair. Grandma says we nauseate her. Grandpa says that he doesn’t mind. His ears are big and sunburned. I ask him why he has hair in his ears. My mother laughs. Grandpa tells me that old men have big hairy ears and tells me to get down from his lap. He stiffly pushes himself out of his worn, red armchair and lumbers across the living room, out to the front lawn. He drags a white lawn chair out of the garage and sets it on the gravel in the driveway.

Ralph has dark leathery skin that both stretches and hangs on his face and neck. He always looks drunk because his face is red, but he isn’t. Most mornings, he and his weed-whacker come say hi. Grandpa is wearing gray corduroy pants, a one-piece zip-front garment, and a pair of suspenders. He always wears suspenders on account of his bottom being flat. He takes the chair to the lawn, sits down, and starts watering the grass. I ask him why he doesn’t use a sprinkler. I think he says something about dry patches of grass, but I only remember running off to climb the neighbor’s cherry tree with scraped knees.

As I watch Grandpa walking about in his underwear after his shower, I notice his distinct farmer’s tan. His arms are long, heavy, and deliberate. His fingers are calloused, his thumbs cracked. In front of the mirror, he squirts a blob of yellow L.A. Gel in his hands and slicks back his fuzzy clean hair. On go his pants, his pocket T-shirt, and his suspenders. He sits on the bed to pull up his socks then asks me to fetch his billfold off the warsh machine.

Sometimes he scolds me. When we go out to light the trash barrel he gruffly chides me for adding a plastic bag. He says burning plastic bags makes holes in the ozone layer. I try to imagine invisible holes in the sky.

When he goes to fill the gas in his little white truck I want to tag along. He says, “Go ax your Grandma.” The gas station has a little store that sells cheap candy. I beg for candy necklaces and jaw breakers. One day we were on our way home from the gas station. I hang my arm out the open window and run my fingers through the breeze. I tell Grandpa to go faster. He laughs and asks if I want to feel the wind in my hand. “No,” I say, “you are just driving like a grandpa.” I am caught off guard by how funny he thinks this is. Everyone at home likes the story, too.

Grandpa’s taste fascinates me. Myth has it that when he was in the army he would eat graham crackers with peanut butter and sardines. He is the only person I know on earth who eats soft-boiled eggs. Grandma makes us waffles but Grandpa tops his with butter, sausage, and eggs over easy. I cannot fathom how these could possibly go together. He likes other gross food such as Wheaties, Postum, and Saltines. I only venture near these foods in order to dig for the marshmallow bag in the pantry.

When Grandpa had his first stroke he was quieter. He didn’t water the lawn anymore and I didn’t sit on his lap. His red armchair was mounted on a pedestal with a lift to help him get up. His arms weren’t tan and strong. His right arm looked flat and pale like a stiff, thick fish. When he started to feel better he would stand in the middle of the room with a ball covered with Grandma’s panty hose, lifting it up and down, clumsily. He looked like he was trying to dance in his sleep. 

When he came to my wedding I remember how awkward I felt around him. He was so quiet and everything about him seemed older, whiter. I loved him just as much, but almost didn’t want to touch him. He seemed so frail and different. I felt guilty for not sitting on his lap and stroking his hair. But his presence meant the world. I watched Jon get him dressed during my endowment, and it was one of the sweetest memories of the day.

Aunt Tammy posted pictures of the burial service on Facebook. It was a rude awakening. I cried that night, finally. It had been days since I found out that he had died, but until then I had felt largely indifferent. I cried at night. I miss him as he was.