George

Clockwise from left: George, Diana, Lois, Lucinda, and John (my dad)

My grandpa passed away this morning and I have been trying to think of how to convey who he was, and why he was so important to me. I decided that I wanted to post a creative writing piece I completed a few years ago. I am sad, indeed. But I am also hopeful that he is rejoicing where he is now and can be reunited with my grandmother Lois. This notion comforts me immensely.

George
Dying lilacs drooped over the edge of a bubbly green glass vase. The leather couch was blanketed in stacks of papers: The Chronicle, Consumer Reports, Time, Star Tribune. On the dining room table dozens of letters and documents were stacked, resembling a small city of skyscrapers. A square lot of space remained clear for dining. I began to scan the rest of the room, trying to get a sense of how he spent his time. A blue ceramic mug rested upon a folded napkin. His Tilley hat was perched on the counter next to a calendar depicting a pretty Lake Superior sunset. He loves that hat, I thought to myself.

The fact that my grandfather was living alone was still hard to get used to. For sixty years he shared his life with Lois, my grandma. They spent a majority of those years in a brick and stucco house on a beautiful tree lined street in Minneapolis. I lived with them during their last year in the house, sleeping in the room my sisters and I had stayed in as children during visits. It was during that year that my grandparents realized they had grown too small for the house they were living in; they made a new home within a senior community of apartments. Lois passed away not long after their move.

"What have you written this week, grandpa?" I asked.
He sat for a moment. I knew I had to give him time. Slowly he pulled himself up from the recliner and left the room. I looked over at the Minneapolis skyline through his front window and tried to imagine the people working inside those massive buildings. Did my grandpa sit and picture the same thing? Was he content with his quiet life, while business raged and horns honked beyond the walls of his apartment?

Slowly, he returned from his office and handed me a single sheet of paper, his hand shaking. He then walked over to his worn leather reclining chair and allowed all of his weight to sink into it. His hand began to tap and he stared straight ahead. The story was about his first bicycle, the "biggest, heaviest Schwinn he could find." He wrote about riding it down a gravel road called Sagamore Hill. The last half of the story turned its focus to me, and about how I had bicycled across Europe and Peru. It made me gush with happiness, the fact he had noted me over other memories from his whole big long life.
"Grandpa, that was an excellent story," I said.
He asked me if I caught the part about about myself. I told him yes.
"You know, I almost studied art?" he asked.
I nodded enthusiastically. Of course I knew. He always told me so.

I asked him about the farm he grew up on, and about living in Brazil and Japan. About his career as a political science professor for over forty years. I asked him because I wanted him to talk. No matter how drawn out it was, I needed to know him. My grandma had been the talker. When it came time for my grandpa to contribute, it was usually because he had been prompted by her, George, why don't you tell us about ___ ?. He'd nod and allow himself to be taken back in time to remember. A fire crackled away in the fireplace. Old Dutch ruffled potato chips floated in a white china bowl beside a container of French Onion dip. The adults were sipping on Manhattans. And then ever so briefly my grandfather told his story, before Lois chimed in to add embellishments.

His hand began to tap against the chair again.
"Hungry?" he asked.

In the elevator on the way down to the dining hall I looked at the activity sheet posted.
"Grandpa, are you going to go to hear the Chimeleski Band play?"
He shook his head, no. The elevator stopped and a teeny elderly woman got on.
"Look at that beautiful suntan!" she exclaimed as she gave me a good look over.
I looked down, embarrassed, and replied that it probably wasn't good for me to get so much sun.
"Heavens no. You look very healthy."
Her name was Maxine

The tables were robed in vinyl cloths; each one had been bestowed a pink carnation. The evening's meal was an equal balance of meat, potatoes, vegetables and bread. Across the way, a regular dining resident, Dr. Swanson was speaking politics. He spoke loudly to those who were fortunate to be his dining guests that evening. I squeezed lemon on my broiled walleye and toppled a tower of carrots with my fork. The servings were meager and it made me think of how my grandpa had always been the server for dinners at their old house. He used to sit at the head of the table and dish out mounds of mashed potatoes, villages of green beans, and some kind of meat. And after all of this he and my grandma never failed to encourage us to have second helpings.

We were quiet during most of dinner. It was hard for my grandpa to hear over Dr. Swanson, so I focused my attention on the food, looking up to smile across the way periodically, and then back down to the walleye. As the volume seemed to lower at the table next to us I ventured a question.
"Did you take the Lexus out today grandpa?"
A slight smile appeared and he nodded yes. He loved cars and often joked about taking his "run" around the lake in his vehicle. It was the first black car he had owned, for Lois didn't like the color black. Not long after my grandmother's death my grandpa bought the car and a day later he had a bad fall. He said Lois was punishing him.

"What are you going to do tonight grandpa?" I asked.
He shrugged as he sliced into the strawberry shortcake that had just arrived.
"Oh... I think I will watch the game." he said after a long silence.
"The Twins?" I asked.
He nodded. Of course.
The strawberries tasted good. I ate the dessert deliberately and tried to keep time with my grandpa so that we finished at the same time. We got up from the table, I went over to hold his arm. Walking past other tables, my grandpa raised his hand, hello and nodded acknowledgment to his acquaintances. It made me so glad he had new friends.

It was time for me to leave. Four long months would pass before seeing him again, as I lived a thousand miles away.
He walked with me out the front doors and into the courtyard, stopping to check his mailbox on the way. Water churned in a nearby fountain and a man sat filling out the crossword puzzle in the daily paper.
"What are you driving today? he asked.
I pointed across the street and told him it was my mom's Audi.
He nodded his approval.
Hugging him, I told him I would write, that I missed him, and that I loved him.
I crossed the street to the car. Turning back, I waved to him, and he returned the goodbye. I got into the car and looked back again. He was slowly walking back into his small world on Bryant Avenue. My throat began to feel like it was closing and I started to cry as I wondered why loving someone was so good and so hard at the same time.