Grandpa

My grandfather was a painter. Mostly landscapes, but for a while he painted boats. The pictures are love to look at, well composed and balanced. He had a marvelous eye for color and I remember the rich blue-green of the ocean waves with the roiling white caps. I remember the brown and red of rocks jutting out into the ocean, and the green and gold of trees in peaceful meadows. He painted pathways, occasionally, that led to scenic places where I wanted to live. And he had a fondness for mountains that I shared.

My grandfather, when he was older, lost an eye and for a while he wore a prosthetic. I remember him coming to my home shortly after and I asked him which one was fake. I wanted to know because to look at him he had two good eyes. They were the same to me, each one glassy white with pale blue irises. He rolled his eyes around and around and only one moved; the other stared straight ahead looking neither to the right nor to the left. I pointed to the one that moved, because, I reasoned, it was so new it could probably do tricks. I was an idiot, and he shook his head at me and I was embarrassed.

I think he stopped painting for a while, but not for long. And soon he was churning them out again, his pictures as lovely as before, maybe a little more colorful. And I marveled that he could be such an artist with such a handicap. I never heard him complain about it except to say that he couldn't drive because he had no depth perception. But my grandmother was more than willing to take over chauffeuring and so they got on quite happily.

He was a man of letters, in that he liked writing and receiving them. He had many friends, many of whom lived far away, that he corresponded with regularly, churning out letter after letter on an old Smith Corona electric typewriter. I remember loving that machine at an early age because you could change the print heads and thus the type to an elegant script. This was beyond wonderful to me. My mom had an electric typewriter, but we didn't have that particular font for a while and I ached for it.

My grandfather was a gentleman and always carried a handkerchief that he used to blow his noise (loudly) or wipe his eye, which wept when the prosthetic was in place. My husband, it should be noted, carried a handkerchief, too, when I met him and I thought this to be a good sign. My grandparents' marriage was pretty darn near perfect -- in that they loved and adored each other to the very end. You don't find that very much anymore these days. But while they were here, I knew it was possible and took it for granted that marriages were for keeps. It should also be noted that picking the right person for the job goes a long way toward future security and happiness and I chose wisely.

I love my grandfather. He was unfailingly kind. The older I get the more I long to talk with him. He was never shy with an opinion and sometimes I feel a little lost and in need of direction. And sometimes I just want to sit and look at him, with his white hair and good eye and gnarled fingers and see him in his short-sleeve button down shirt, the fabric so thin you could see his pale chest through it, and his belted trousers pulled up to his naval. And I wish, more than ever, that I could watch him paint and see how he does it, layer by layer.

It's a bird....no, wait...

There was a time when my daughter Robyn thought my husband was Superman. Literally. She was sure he could fly and the whole nine yards. Come to think of it, she thought she could fly, too. (Perhaps she assumed it was hereditary.) As proof, she would beg me to watch, then run from one end of the living room to the other, leap into the air and come crashing down about eighteen inches away. “See?” she would demand, “I told you I could fly!”

To be fair, my husband did more than a few things to perpetuate the myth and thus remain her #1 hero for as long as she was willing to believe it. When we’d hear her coming down the hall, he would take a leap, landing just as her little brown eyes would come around the corner. “Oh honey,” he’d say, regret weighing heavy on every word, “You just missed it. I was flying all around the house.”

“Oh, Daddy, do it again. Please!”

He’d begin to huff and puff. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I’m just too tired.”
And though she’d be disappointed to have missed his flight...again...she’d nod her head, brown little ringlets bobbing in sympathy. “Okay, maybe later.”
Now, add to this my daughter’s hero worship of Deputy Sheriffs in general and my Deputy Sheriff husband in particular, and you’ll understand why she thought him capable of heroic acts at any time of the day or night. She firmly believed that he could and would help anyone in distress at any time. It’s not too far from the truth () and it led to an interesting discussion between my daughter and I one afternoon.

Our little family was driving down Avenue R when we spotted three women broken down on the side of the road. Dan, good man that he is, abruptly pulled over and offered his help which they gratefully received. While he was outside with his head under their hood, Robyn bombarded me with questions about what he was doing and why. I told her that Daddy was helping them because he was a good man. She argued (as she will invariably do when the opportunity presents itself) that he was helping them because he was a Sheriff. I tried correcting her, trying in vain to instill in her the idea that he was helping them at that moment simply because he was a Good Man! And she was just as insistent that it had nothing to do with that, but with the fact that he was a Sheriff and that is what Sheriff’s do!

Finally, after several rounds and no decision in sight, she finally sat back with a satisfied smile and said, “Oh, I know! He’s a Sheriff at work and a Superhero at home.” I wasn’t about to argue with that logic. It sounded about right to me.