The Simple Things

Grampy raised his three boys by his cardinal rule “Do as I say or find yourself on the wrong end of my belt”. Period. Of course this was in the 1950's and 60's when spanking your child was perfectly OK and Child Protective Services was just a twinkle in the government's eye. Oh the stories I've heard of Grampy chasing one of the boys down the desert road they lived on, waving his belt over his head, cussing at the top of his lungs. His boys learned early on how to run and run FAST. Two of them won medals on the High School Track team. You could say they were motivated to succeed. He taught his boys to fight, be strong, work hard and to do anything for your family, even if they are no account idiots who never appreciated their parents. He told me once many years ago (when he had been drinking) that being a father was not his best accomplishment. D'ya think? He looked sad and forlorn when he said it. I felt badly for him. Or maybe his eyes were just glazed over from the tequila. I don't know. 

Tex has been my father in law for almost 39 years now and he's the only parent we have left. The others were too nice to last that long...Grampy's just too honery to die. I told him once he's going to out-live us all just to spite us. He got a little twinkle in his eye then took out his teeth and started preaching to me about flossing and brushing. He did that at the dinner table one Easter Sunday when we had all the kids, grandkids and “company” over as well. I consider “company” people who don't know us well enough to discern our dysfunctions yet. They still think we're pretty normal. And especially people who have never met Arthur Ronald Victor B. He pulled out his dentures during dinner, wanting to show his great-grandkids what happens from a lifetime of not brushing your teeth on a regular basis. (hobo's don't have toothbrushes don't you know) I saw the wide-eyed, horrific stare from our "company" sitting across from him and quickly re-routed Grampy into another conversation, desperately trying to steer him, and us, away from the precipice of utter social doom. Our "company" has politely declined any further invitations to dinner. 

Tex has taught me many things that are check-listed on the hard drive of my memory. He's taught me to “look before you leap” and the pitfalls of jumping to erroneous conclusions, making a fool out of yourself in the grocery story when you raise a commotion at the check stand, swearing the carrots are on sale only to be calmly shown they aren't. He's taught me not to take life too seriously when, at that same check stand, he has no reservations about pulling up his threadbare, flannel shirt to show the astonished cashier the scar from his quadruple by-pass surgery. That's quadruple he says to emphasize the fact that his surgery was one better than triple. He's taught me that the acquisition of money is not the end-all to our existence and that the simple pleasures in life are not bought but they are enough. Watching the western channel with a good dog and a bowl of freshly popped popcorn on your lap is as good as it needs to get. It's enough.

Grampy lives in a single-wide trailer in a Senior's mobile home park, pretty close to us. He calls Mike (My husband, his son, his caretaker and lifeline) on the phone at least once a day. He leaves angry messages if it goes to voice mail, wondering why the hell Mike's not answering. Then he calls me. I think I'm the next best thing. Oftentimes I'm in a meeting at work. I always take his call. "Hi dad, what's up?" "Well I forgot—what day is it today?" "Tuesday Dad. It's Tuesday". "OK thanks". click. Or, more importantly, "I pressed the wrong damn button on this clicker here and now all I have is snow on the TV and Touched By An Angel. I'm missing the Rifleman and I don't even like Touched By An Angel!" So I step out of the meeting and talk him through the buttons on the remote control. 

I like to think he needs us, that we are his raison d'etre. And maybe it's true. He would say "Ray zone du et! What the hell kind of language is that?" I have experienced enough parental loss to realize he won't be around much longer so I try to savor and even enjoy him while he's here. He makes us laugh at his eccentricities. He tests our patience and makes us better people. And every once in awhile, every once in a blue moon when his defenses are down, he'll come over to watch Bonanza with Mike and when he leaves he'll give me a hug, call me darlin' and tell me he loves me. And that makes it worth it. That's enough.

Chili Dogs and Other Mutts

Grampy is almost 86 years old and not too happy about it. He doesn't like the kinks, jabs and irritations that come with living inside an 86 year old body. He told me he looked in the mirror the other day and wondered who that old man was. But then, Grampy's not too happy about anything and never has been. As long as I've known Grampy he's been a whining, foul-mouthed cantankerous old goat—and that's when he's in a good mood. But I sure do love him. 

Being so hale and hearty for most of his life, old age has fiercely walloped him hard and completely taken him by surprise. He finds his life revolving around doctor visits, prescription pills, Gunsmoke and naps, leaving less time for his favorite past-time—lunch at Der Wienerschnitzel. He used to take his little dog to Der Wienerschnitzel every day to get chili dogs. One for him and one for Mugsy. They'd go park the car in the shade by Longs Drug store and eat their hot dogs. Only he had to lick the chili off Mugsy's dog as the puppy didn't like chili. In all my infinite wisdom, I finally told him one day “Why don't you get yourself a chili dog and that dadburned dog of yours a mustard dog, hold the mustard?” (I used to work there. I know the lingo). He stared at me for a few seconds like I was a complete idiot then shouted “Hell no. I LIKE licking the chili off!” But now that his little dog is gone, even during a good week some of the charm has worn off and Der Wienerschnitzel visits are sporadic and farther between. 

Grampy was born with four names, the first three being Arthur Ronald Victor. Everyone calls him Tex. Quite a handle for a man who is 5'3” and weighs 120 on a good day. A strong wind could blow him over and we are careful to keep him inside on windy days. He is French Canadian which he's very proud of and speaks a strange dialect of French I don't understand and one they never taught me when I took four years of French in High School. So he'll come over in the summer and walk through the front door proclaiming it's hot outside “Ill faw fret!” He says. I told him his French doesn't make sense and that's not how I learned it. He told me the nuns in my high school were damn fools and lesbians and that they never lived in France. Well he's got me there.

He ran away from his violent, abusive, alcoholic father and none-too-happy home at the tender age of 13, taking his little brother Willie with him. They traveled from Phoenix, Arizona to Dallas, Texas in search of kinfolk in Dallas who they were hoping would take them in. This was 1938, during the Great Depression. Two boys could travel with the hobos, jumping trains and sleeping out in the open around campfires without being bothered by the police. But they weren't scared of the police. They were scared to death their father would find them and really kill them for good. He didn't. They made it to Dallas. At 18 Tex was drafted into WWII which he refers to as “The war to end all wars”. I told him “No. They actually called WWI 'The war to end all wars',not WWII”. (Wikipedia Dad, it's called the Internet) He didn't buy it. He gave me that long, hard stare and none-too-gently reminded me again of the mentally deficient, wayward nuns who taught me a whole crap load of nuthin' in school. He's got me there. 

Grampy Drinks the Koolaid

Grampy is old as dirt, a widower and lives in a senior mobile home park a couple miles from us.  He's lived long enough to be bitter and honery and get away with it. He's 5'3" tall, and loud; cranky as an old rooster with a hangover. But he's the only parent Mike and I have left so we do love him and patiently tolerate him, knowing first-hand that parents only come once in life and don't last forever. And we also know that our adult children are watching us and getting clues on how to treat their aged P's (parents). 

     Grampy has 27 great-grandchildren. Every time a new one is born we sit down together and count them all up again. We start with the oldest and name them all down to the new one. He never remembers how many he has. He just knows he has "too damn many." "Well" he says "At least most of them are boys. Girls are trouble. I never wanted girls". (He had three sons) Seeing the illogic behind that reasoning and having had two daughters of my own who are and were NOT trouble (well not much) I just nodded my head and changed the subject. I used to argue with him. I don't have the energy anymore. He's as stubborn as dried egg yolk on a fork sitting three days out in the sun. Unlike God, who changed His mind about destroying the golden calf-worshiping Hebrew children when Moses beseeched Him not to, Grampy does NOT change his mind.

Grampy got first hit on the pinata.

     We had my grandson Jared's 8th bday party here at my house, weekend before last, We had a piñata and all the kids got cellophane treat bags with all kinds of candies and prizes that fell from the piñata, plus other goodies Sarah (Jared's mom) stuck in the bag. Well Grampy came to the party. He says there are too damn many kids underfoot so leave him out of the parties...But he comes over anyway. Nevertheless he had a swell time, even took a whack at the piñata, entertained us with stories of his youth, and was the last to leave.

     Mike (my husband) gave one of the leftover candy-filled treat bags to Grampy as he was walking out the door. Grampy came over this weekend shoved the treat bag he'd received in my face and said "Your husband tried to kill me with this candy" There was no candy left in the bag - he'd eaten it all. There were only two balloons and a small yellow bottle of bubbles (the tiny kind with the wand in the lid) "What?" I asked eagerly, knowing I was going to get a great reply and gearing up for it. "Yeah!" he continued, pointing to the cellophane bag "I tried drinking that yellow lemonade and it tasted like soap! I hope none of them other kids got sick on it!" Well I had to hahaha in his face and that only made him spittin' mad. He stormed out of the room in search of Mike to give HIM an ear-full. How on earth did that man make it to 85 years?