My Grandpa
This is my Grandpa and LJ when he was about 3 years old. They are making tomato sauce. That was the year my grandparents' garden put out more cherry tomatoes than you could ever possibly imagine. I remember Grandma asking "What do you want me to make for dinner?" and Grandpa replied, "I don't know, but it better not have any damn tomatoes in it!" Teehee.
When I was growing up, we lived just down the road from my grandparents. Looking back, I see how special this was. My cousins only saw Grandpa a few times a year -- I could see him every day and pretty much did. When I was little, I would spend the night there and always slept in one of his giant, white cotton t-shirts. I remember we couldn't bathe and get ready for bed until after Grandpa did. Later, Grandma told me that this was because when he was a child, he was last in line for a bath and had to use the bathwater left from all the other kids, never fresh, clean water.
He always smelled like Campho-Phenique. He wore coveralls (like in the picture above) every day. The only time I ever remember seeing him in a suit was for his 50th anniversary party. He worked hard and had his own business for years -- it was common to see him screeching around town in his little Ford Courier pickup. This was a sight to see because he was a big man -- 6'4 and probably 250 pounds or better in his hey day.
In his later years, you could find him kicked back in his recliner watching television in the living room. It was always his routine to nap after lunch. I remember one time my brother and I took our tape recorder and recorded his snoring during naptime. When we played it back for him later, he feigned surprise and swore that could not be him making all that racket!
When the smaller grandkids and great grandkids were around, he would mesmerize them with stories of his days "Down on the Pecos with Pancho Villa" (yes, I was a teenager before I figured out these were made up stories! He was convincing!) He would bounce babies on his knee, singing:
Peepin' through the knot-holeof grandpa's wooden leg,
Who'll wind the clock when I'm gone?
Bring me the ax There's a flea in Lizzie's ear,
And a boy's best friend is his mother.
After LJ was born and it was time for me to return to work, Grandpa and Grandma were my "daycare". They doted on LJ -- spoiled him rotten. Grandpa would hold him and sing to him. Grandma would dance around the room with him to her favorite Cajun music (to this day he loves the Zydeco). He was their baby, their special great grandson, until we moved to California when LJ was about 18-months old.
Time marched on -- Grandpa grew older and more frail as the years went by. Eventually, he suffered a stroke that left him partially paralyzed and unable to speak clearly. This was frustrating to him. You could tell he had things to say, but the words just would not come out right. At first, Grandma could help him around the house, but in time he needed a nurse's care to help him in and out of bed or a chair, to use the bathroom and to bathe.
Early one morning, he woke up before Grandma -- and before the nurse arrived -- and tried to get to the bathroom on his own. He fell in the hallway, striking his head on the door frame, breaking his neck. He was rushed to the hospital, where they placed him in a steel "halo" to keep him immobile. My dad called me at work and told us to come -- and come quickly. It was so sad. Grandpa was so weak, so skinny and frail looking in that hospital bed. He was awake, but not very alert, and not saying much. I went in and spoke to him for a few minutes -- he did not respond.
LJ was with us -- he was 13 and just old enough to be able to go in and visit. I'll never forget this: we walked in together, he went to the head of the bed, leaned over and gently said, "Papa, it's me." And Grandpa smiled and whispered, "That's my boy....."
:o)
Grandpa never left the hospital. They did all they could for him, but he was too frail to hang on. He passed on Christmas Day, 2002.
posted by Tamfish @ 11:44 AM
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