A Worthy Aspiration

I haven’t written much lately. Sooo many spinning plates and so little time. I’m hoping life will settle down, which is likely a punchline many of you know in your lives.

You likely heard by now that Violet Ruth Bond made her entrance on March 17. The St. Patrick’s Day birth led me to lobby, unsuccessfully, for some version of “Patricia” in her name. It was a non-starter, but rest assured, I will find some way to work Patty into her future. If I can call Ruby by Rubes, then surely Violet can be Patty. Such is the purview of grandparents, right? All the fun with none of the work.

Violet had been waiting in the wings for nine months, cramped into a womb without a view, kicking and begging for her entrance into the bright lights. Mother and daughter are doing well, thanks for asking. Mindy endured a lengthy labor, sans painkillers, yet one more reason that if men gave birth, we would live in a sparsely populated world.

Because we share a house with the Bonds (upstairs for them, downstairs for the Hurleys), our paths cross quite often. Though Violet has only been around for a few days, I’m a grandpa x 2 now. I have friends with a whole gaggle of grandchildren, houses filled with small feet, dirty fingers, and hungry mouths. And so much noise. I think God knew I had to begin more slowly. Let me explain.

My four grandparents left me with a less than stellar example of how to do it. My dad’s folks, Berniece and JP, I have almost no memories of them. Berniece (so I’m told), had a great affinity for sweets, which I blame for my lifelong weakness for all things chocolate. I’ve seen pictures of her and heard the stories, but she’s a blank canvas in my mind.

JP lived longer than his wife, residing first in Wisconsin and then later in South Dakota, but my memories of him are pretty sketchy since I lived in California. A birthday party for him in a backyard in Sioux Falls. An old man sitting under a blanket on the couch. Again, pictures and stories, but that’s it. No voice, no anecdotes. Whatever interactions we had, for better or worse, have vanished.

I wish I could say the same for my mom’s folks. My maternal grandmother remarried after the death of her first husband; I never knew him. The new guy was Hudson, whom we called “Huds.” He was funny with a knack for fixing electric things. His big joke was a long version of “Whatsamalla Me? Whatsamalla you!” His affinity for highballs often left him sleeping in a chair, but when he was awake, I liked him.

My mom’s mom, well, there’s another story. Bossy and ornery, judgmental and snobby, traits exacerbated by her alcohol intake, I mostly sought to avoid her. When she and Huds lived in Fresno and we drove to see them, I couldn’t wait to go somewhere, anywhere to escape the house. Their museum-like home seemed not just sterile, but old and critical. Especially old.

Unlike my three other grandfolks, stories still abound with Helen Sr. at the center. And almost none of them are good. She dropped pearls of wisdom like, “Grab your grips and wash your teeth!” Old-timey phrases that were old even then seem even funnier now.

When Melanie entered the family, we visited Helen Sr. in her apartment in Fresno. Huds was long gone at this point, and we thought it would be a good idea to stay the night. Upon entering her place around noon, Melanie was thirsty and looked for a glass. She opened the cupboard, turned to me and asked, “Why does your grandmother keep her iced tea in the cabinet?” I had to explain it wasn’t, in fact, iced tea, and we had arrived earlier than we said. “Ahhh,” she said.

As we packed to leave the next day, we were berated for not staying longer and grilled about when we would return. Her demeanor inspired us to leave quickly. Very quickly. The visit with her did not go well. (That’s what we call a litote, a figure of speech we usually call understatement. I thought you might like the technical word.)

For years, my view of grandparents mostly ranged from old photographs to villains out of Little Orphan Annie. If you had asked me in my youth what I aspire to, I would say a husband or father. Later, I added teacher, temporary youth pastor, homeowner, lawn-care guru, and writer. Though I never aspired to AP Lit teacher or Debate coach, I adopted those mantles as well.

(True story: at my job interview in 1985, the principal asked me if I could start a Debate team. “Absolutely!” I replied with complete certainty and ego. In fact, I had no experience, no idea, and no real desire to coach Debate. But I needed a job. If he had asked, “Can you pilot the next space shuttle and train the crew?” I would have answered with equal bluster, “Absolutely!”)

My point here is that I never even really thought about being a grandfather, or the nickname Rubes uses, a Pagwa. Can you blame me? I had no template, no vision of how to do it. Sure, I saw my dad and in-laws do the grandparent thing and do it well. But I was viewing the grandparent thing through the lens of a grandson. And there wasn’t much worthy of imitation. Why would I aspire to be really old with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel? Turns out that perception wasn’t true.

Now, I’m the Pagwa of two, learning the role, hoping to leave lasting images and words for Rubes and Patty (see what I did there?) and whoever else may add to our family, hoping that more will follow. Woody Allen said 90% of life is just showing up. He’s right. This grandparent thing…I think I can do it.

If anyone asks now, I can tell you all about being the guy for grandkids up to the age of seven, Ruby’s current age. Anything past that, you’ll just have to wait for my wisdom to develop. One day, one week, one year at a time.

This aspiration, I’ve come to learn, far exceeds most of my earlier dreams about what I might accomplish this side of Heaven. Nothing wrong with the earlier aspirations. But for right now, I am Pagwa, hear me roar.

Thanks for reading!

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