A Grandfather's Love

I knew for sure that my grandfather loved me when, after his death, I was rustling through his basement bathroom and found above the medicine cabinet, a letter I'd sent him when I was in college.

He'd bought a used car for me and I was supposed to pay him back in installments. The letter was to let him know I wanted to pay him back but I couldn't. I never heard back from him. I never paid for the car either.

The car served me well, taking me back and forth from St. Louis to Jefferson City several times. The brakes were shaky and it smoked like crazy. Huge noxious black clouds of smoke. My schoolmates would ask if they could get an order of BBQ from me when I cruised the campus, which wasn't often since mostly I walked trying to preserve my decrepit old car.

I drove that car many miles under the influence of drugs. Sometimes handing off the keys to fellow riders, just as high as I was. Thankfully God was looking out for all of us in those days.


I eventually sold it. The woman I sold it to came back to me with misgivings, complaining about the brakes. I explained to her "as is". I believe I made an enemy that day.


But back to Grandfather. He was a major father figure in my life. He was a gruff, old school guy. He thought women should stay in the kitchen. I resented the fact that I couldn't hang out with him and my brother as they tinkered on cars in the backyard. He bought all of the family's groceries. Always coming home with off brand items, trying to save money. Grandmother would be pissed. But she worked with whatever he brought home. Including a big old fresh fish that she had to scale and gut. Fish scales flew all over the kitchen. I was amazed, who knew fish had eyes!

He smoked a pipe in the living room from his pipe collection. He had a intricate ritual of cleaning the pipe before the puffing began. He was a hoarder, as was my mother. His domain of the basement workshop, barbershop and garage were stuffed to the rafters with massive amounts of junk of all types. My brother could enter but not us girls, my cousins and me.

I would sneak into the workroom that held a treasure trove of tools and half finished projects, or contraptions as my Grandmother called them. He was always working on something with his working man's hands. I wanted to see his hands in the coffin during his funeral, but wasn't allowed. My family thought it was a morbid request. I remembered his hands.

He would take me and my brother to the Soulard Market on the weekends. I was creeped out by the live chickens, but happy I was hanging with the fellas. He drove around in a dilapidated truck that I was embarrassed to ride in to church. He didn't care.

He always had a five o'clock shadow and when we kids kissed his cheeks we would shriek about the scratchiness. He wasn't a warm and fuzzy kind of guy. No hugging, no "I love you"s. No holiday cards, none of that kind of soft stuff.

Him buying me the car, or taking care of our family for years by working the night shift at the railroad until he retired, didn't hit me as love. Seeing that he had saved that letter of mine did.