Grandpa, Part 2

The last missive concerning Jules, my grandfather, was anecdotal, myself repeating what stories I’d been told. Even as I wrote it, I knew I ought to write a follow-up, sharing some of my more personal experiences.

My grandfather was a tease. He could be gruff too, somewhat short of temper, I’m told; but he was always kind and gentle, all the times I ever saw him. And a tease. Anyone who knew him will probably say as much. My father was the same, and, I think, I suppose I don’t fall far from that tree.

I recall sitting on my grandfather’s lap. He asked me if I wanted a sip of ginger ale, his voice somewhat raspy, that of a long-term smoker, which he was. His face lit up with mischief as he asked, an expression I knew all too well. I was having none of that. I knew it wasn’t ginger ale, and told him so. “That’s beer,” I told him.

“No,” he said, trying and failing to sound serious, “it’s ginger ale. Here,” he said. “Taste it.” And he’d place the glass under my nose.

“Look at it,” I said, gentle pushing it away, leaning back. I did not like the small of beer. Too sharp. And it stung my nose. “Look at the suds.”

“That’s whipped cream,” he explained.

“No it’s not!” I said.

I did eventually plunge my nose into his glass, to confirm to myself that he was teasing me. When I came back up for air, my nose was wrinkled. “That’s beer,” I said, my nose still wrinkled. Of course, he laughed.

Somewhat later, when his flexibility was less than it had been, I used to kneel down in front of him to help him put on and take off his shoes. The elderly imp used to curl his toes while I did it, making the effort difficult, if not impossible. Once I figured out what he was doing, I’d look up into his eyes to see if I could see that mischievous glint in them. It was. “Stop that,” I’d command him. He’d just laugh, and do it again. Exasperated, I’d call out, “Mom! He’s doing it again.”

“Grandpa, stop curling your toes,” she’d tell him, expecting that he’d do as he pleased, would do what he would, regardless what anyone said. And that he would, eventually. Of course, that just made him laugh all the harder, that raspy chuckle shaking him.

I remember him in his place, in his chair in the dining room, the cards set out before him in solitaire. Listening. Calling out to my grandmother. Holding court at Christmas time. He’d call me to him, to that chair. I’d come close, and he’d gather me up, and then he’d pass me a two-dollar bill, slipping it covertly into my palm. He always seemed to have a two-dollar bill ready when we came to visit. This is for you, he’d say. Don’t tell anybody. Everyone saw. Everyone heard. But it was our little secret, just the same.