When I was ten my parents split up, and we went to live with my mother's parents. My grandmother was a housewife and homemaker, my grandfather retired navy and civil servant with Bell Helicopter in Hurst, Texas. They were a quirky couple, but probably the only up-close-and-personal "normal" family I really encountered growing up, which isn't quite the right word.
My other grandparents were very stiff and distant, requiring a kiss on the cheek when we came for a visit and when we left. Otherwise we were relegated to the backroom where we couldn't misunderstand that children were to be seen and not heard.
I really didn't get to have too many interactions with my grandfather alone. He was in the mix occasionally as he came through while fixing a car or mowing the grass. He mostly kept to himself.
His had three big loves that I knew of: beer, golf and music. Unfortunately whatever love my grandparents shared was poignantly missing by the time I came around. I think they must have at some point, but who's to say.
When he was old with dementia in the nursing home I watched my mother sit on the floor at his feet and beg him to tell her he loved her. He did and I watched my aunt run to get in on the action, not realizing myself what significance this moment held for them. It was the first time and only time in her life he had spoken those words to her. He could not be coaxed to say it to my aunt.
He had a great singing voice and loved music. It played in our house from sunup to sundown. He sang while he shaved which was one of my favorite memories of him. Another was when he taught me to whistle. As far as I know I'm the only family member that asked to learn anything from him. I remember him eyeing me up and down and slowly saying, "Okay, kid." And I got the one and only lesson he was to give me, though occasionally when he watched me struggle all summer he would look at me and move his lips into position so I could see what I was supposed to be doing with mine.
I puckered my face, stretched my lips and jaw tight and blew, and blew, and blew. My face ached all summer. But I was determined. The whistle is quite loud and does not involve using your fingers.
Mostly it was used to call us to assembly from wherever we were. I use it to get my partners attention on our ranchette or to express enthusiasm at a concert.
Of the eight of us cousins I am the only one who can do his whistle. It seems like such a small thing to pass down, but I remember being so proud that I could finally do it when I did get the hang of it.
I am pretty sure he was proud of me, too, though he would never have said it.
Its always interesting to me what memories stick out from childhood. I am curious to hear more.
Hoping to hear more of your blog soon if all is well?
Thank you, yes. Touch of the flu lately.
Oh good (not the flu of course)!