Gramps

This is from a prompt in class, where we were asked to describe a photo. I dedicate this to Russell Weis, my Gramps. Rest in peace, and keep givin' em hell, wherever you are. I love you.

Holidays were always the best times with my mom’s side of the family.  While everyone contributes to the fun in their own ways, everything revolved around Gramps.  He was the life of the party, the one everyone shut up to listen to.  Sure, there were times when he got on our nerves, like when he’d talk at us while we’d try to read or when he’d repeat a phrase over and over until someone acknowledged him.  Sometimes he acted like a spoiled child, desperate for attention.  But he was our grandpa - he’d do anything for us, and he brought excitement to the most mundane events.  And most of all, he could always make us laugh, even when we didn’t want to. 

Gramps can be seen in our pictures from past Christmases wearing goofy hats, sporting anti-Bush memorabilia and making silly faces.  In one of my particular favorites, he’s seated next to my younger brother Jack, who’s wearing a striped blue and white shirt that brings out his eyes, a diamond earring in his left ear and a good-natured smile.  Gramps himself is wearing one of his signature flannel shirts - this one is an assortment of colors but the focal point is red - a grey t-shirt is worn beneath, his glasses - oval bottoms with  straight tops - but most noticeable is his tongue.  He’s sticking it out, his lips parted just widely enough to let it protrude, much like a teenager would.  This expression was not uncommon with my grandpa.  He made goofy faces at us all the time.  He loved to joke around, but most of all he’d tease us mercilessly.  He loved to pick on his kids, and even more fun were their kids.  There are only four of us grandchildren, my two brothers and I and our cousin Jason, who is in his mid-thirties.  Only my mom and her brother Wayne decided to have kids, my mom’s other siblings, Brenda and Scott, were never married.  They lived with Gramps in his house.  It was never Brenda’s house or Scott’s house, only ever Gramp’s.  We loved going there, it was a regular hangout for the whole family.  As a young child I would spend the night frequently, taking advantage of their cable TV and the endless amounts of junk food Gramps always kept at hand.  He had a major sweet tooth.  In his opinion, if you don’t like sweets, there’s something wrong with you.  Doughnuts were a part of his daily diet.  He’d constantly be offering us brownies and cookies and wouldn’t take no for an answer.  It didn’t matter if you’d just eaten (a frequent excuse of mine, especially when I used to diet). 

“Don’t get too skinny,” he’d tell me.  “I like my women with a little meat on their bones.”

Grandpa loved his holiday food, relishing in the assortment of cookies and candies.  Any time he’d get an ear of corn in his hand he’d take a chunk of butter, about half an inch in diameter, and lump it onto the corn.  Next he’d sprinkle some pepper and salt onto this lump of butter.  Finally, he’d take his glorious, artery-clogging bite.  Savoring the taste as butter streamed out the corners of his mouth, he’d reach for the butter and repeat the process.  He’d do this for every bite. 

***

My friend Mike and I were settling down with some rum and Cokes in his dorm room one night last year.  It was nearing the end of fall semester of my fifth year and we were both in need of some relaxation.  For the first time in days, my mood was soaring.  I was in good company, I didn’t have any homework for the next day, and best of all, we had booze.  The night couldn’t have been more perfect.  We were just about to put in a movie when I heard my phone ring.  Spying the name in the caller ID, I answered giggling, “Daddy?” 

“Mal?”  Her voice was shaking uncontrollably, and she just barely got out, “This is Mom.” 

My heart stopped and my smile evaporated.

“Mal, I just had to call to tell you…”  Her voice broke again and I could sense the tears streaming down her cheeks.  I could feel my own staining my face, drying the areas they touched.  We must have looked like mirror images - two women, both just over 5’, holding a phone to our ears, tears pouring out our eyes - two women from separate generations who look similar but different, one in a kitchen in Zumbrota and the other in a dorm room in Mankato.

She didn’t even have to say it.  I knew.  I knew my grandpa, her dad, one of our favorite people in the world, who did so much for us all our lives, was gone.  I don’t remember anything else I said on the phone, all I remember is sobbing and hearing the same noise echoed back to me from the other end.  It didn’t feel real - I hadn’t seen him for months, I’d been away at school.  It wasn’t fair, I couldn’t even remember the last thing I’d said to him.  When I hung up the phone I looked apologetically at Mike.  Proving to me that he’s a real friend, he said nothing and handed me a box of tissues.  I thanked him with my eyes and excused myself into the opposite room in his suite where I collapsed into a ball on his futon.

Looking back on the last couple of days, I remember thinking we were in the clear.  Gramps had had a major heart attack and brought to the hospital several days before his death.  Being his stubborn Norwegian self, he fought with the nurse when she told him he’d have to cut down on the sweets.  I panicked when I heard what had happened.  My mom had left a message on my phone giving me a brief overview, so when I heard he was fighting with his nurse about ways to keep himself healthy I told my mom to pass on this message: “You tell him Mallory says he has to do everything she says or he’ll be in big trouble with his granddaughter!”  Both mom and Gramps laughed at that one.  Mom said he was glad to hear from me and said he’d try.  Unfortunately for me, my last words to him weren’t direct, but at least they got through to him.

After spending a few days in the hospital, my grandpa was released to go home.  Everyone was happy; things were looking up, he seemed happier and perkier than he had in a while.  Mom tells me he made it home and was his old fiery self for a couple hours.  Just as our nerves were starting to settle, however, Gramps collapsed onto a couch.  We’re happy it happened in his home; Gramps always said he’d die before being committed to a nursing home or a hospital.  It was what he wanted.  He was surrounded by his children, and although I imagine it was horrible for them, at least they got to see him in his last moments.  He died of a heart attack that day, possibly due to a fatal combination of medicine.  Gramps never trusted hospitals or doctors; maybe he was right not to.

Gramps passed away September 25, 2008 at the age of 79.  We didn’t have a formal funeral, deciding instead to hold a memorial gathering for close family members only.  I remember my mom reading something she wrote in his memory which made us all cry.  I said a few words, thanking him for being such a great grandfather and always being there for us, even letting me live in his house with him for 8 months while my family was in Arizona, my voice shaking the entire time.

My family and I spend less time at Gramp’s house now.  Brenda and Scott still live there, but the atmosphere has changed.  It’s just not the same.  I talked to my cousin Jason about it and he said he doesn’t like to go there anymore.  He used to visit Gramps all the time and my mom has noticed a drastic decline in his trips to Zumbrota.  He voiced exactly what I had been thinking - it’s weird without him there.  It’s not that we don’t like to visit Brenda and Scott, quite the opposite; we love to see them.  But it’s still his house.  When I visit, I still half expect him to be there, reading the newspaper or doing a crossword puzzle with the TV on channel 5.  He kept it on that channel all day, from Good Morning America to the 10:00 news.  Now that he’s not there, it’s too quiet.  He was such a presence, you couldn’t ignore him.  He filled that whole house with life.  The house has an empty feeling now.  Even though there are still two people living there, it’s like a hollowed out shell. 

Holidays are going to be very different from now on.  Brenda said she won’t be holding Christmas there anymore, it’d be too sad.  As a small consolation, however, Brenda and Scott have kept the house under his name.  When I googled Russell Weis, 185 W 3^rd came up.  It was my second home, but more than that, it was his home.  It’s where he watched us grow up, and it will always be his place.