My Grandfather
My grandfather was always larger than life. His massive pot belly preceded the rest of him by a few seconds wherever he went, but I'm not talking about that. His booming voice could be heard, as he called for his chickens, far and wide across the property we shared when I was growing up, but I don't mean that either. He wasn't just my mother's father, my neighbor, and the slightly crazy guy who talked to chickens on his little farm. He was the farm.
Even as a small child, he seemed ancient, with a grey buzz-cut, weathered skin, and rough, gorilla-sized hands. Those hands were something. His balled-up fist was the size of a watermelon, and it was easy to imagine that if you angered him, those hands could twist off any appendage that he wished. Even as an old man, he looked like he was a just a few years removed from bench-pressing a tank. He also moved slowly, sometimes with a limp, and could be heard sighing anytime he stood up from the couch where he took his daily naps. Still, he slowly but surely did the things that any younger man would do, and he didn't ask for help doing it. His "babies" got fed daily (and by babies, I mean chickens, ducks, and cats), his grass got mowed, and he still made trips to town to shop. Also, by shop, I mean he hit the flea markets to trade stuff he had for stuff somebody else had. He was the ultimate trader, who would have his own reality show today, proving he was just ahead of his time.
Don't be fooled. He was a gigantic man, a former policeman who also enlisted in the Army, and at age 18 fought for his country in World War II. He was a soldier, a feared enforcer of the law, and then a business owner, starting a taxi service in his tiny little town. However, he was a gentle soul that would happily give anything he owned to those that needed it. He gave homes to so many cats I lost count over the years, he gave me my first car, and he gave my family a place to live, setting aside a place on his land for us to move when I was a kid. He never complained about us taking his space, never complained about three kids being kids all over his farm, and never complained about the cars going in and out as those kids got older. He was just happy to have family around.
Then there were the stories. My aunt swore that he once, as a much younger man, lifted his car with his bare hands in order to change a tire (With those massive hands, I had no trouble believing it). My dad, when he was still just dating my mom, brought my uncle Tony with him. While there, dad was having car trouble, and got out to work on it. Tony sat in the car. My grandfather came out and chatted with my dad, then asked who was in the car. My uncle got out of the car to say hello, and my grandpa said hello, pulled out a pistol, and fired a shot between his feet. My uncle jumped back into the car and refused to get out. There was also the matter of the road we lived on. It was a holler, with just five houses all the way at the end of it. Many years ago, to benefit the 911 system, every road, even the back roads, were given names. Our road was officially Mimosa Lane. However, if you went online, to MapQuest, and looked at a map, it was still called Bob May Road, 911 be damned.
A book could be filled with stories about a man who led a sometimes rough, but always interesting life. He wasn't a perfect man; he was stubborn, even as he got older and needed help, and he certainly didn't hide it if he didn't like somebody, but he was a good man. He was slow to anger, and quick to defend those he cared about. When I married, and then re-married, he accepted both of them as his own. As great-grandchildren came into the world, he loved them like they were his own. Even now, if threatened, I'd expect him to rise up and use those still humongous hands to choke the life out of the threat.
I didn't get to spend as much time with my grandfather as I would have liked in recent years. I no longer lived next door, and with children of my own, it just didn't feel like I had time. I wish I had made time. I take solace in the fact that I know he's probably up in heaven right now, maybe watching an old western, surrounded by cats, and probably forcing cake and soda on all the children. I'll always remember his kindness, his laugh, and those hands. I loved him. I'll miss him.
Even as a small child, he seemed ancient, with a grey buzz-cut, weathered skin, and rough, gorilla-sized hands. Those hands were something. His balled-up fist was the size of a watermelon, and it was easy to imagine that if you angered him, those hands could twist off any appendage that he wished. Even as an old man, he looked like he was a just a few years removed from bench-pressing a tank. He also moved slowly, sometimes with a limp, and could be heard sighing anytime he stood up from the couch where he took his daily naps. Still, he slowly but surely did the things that any younger man would do, and he didn't ask for help doing it. His "babies" got fed daily (and by babies, I mean chickens, ducks, and cats), his grass got mowed, and he still made trips to town to shop. Also, by shop, I mean he hit the flea markets to trade stuff he had for stuff somebody else had. He was the ultimate trader, who would have his own reality show today, proving he was just ahead of his time.
Don't be fooled. He was a gigantic man, a former policeman who also enlisted in the Army, and at age 18 fought for his country in World War II. He was a soldier, a feared enforcer of the law, and then a business owner, starting a taxi service in his tiny little town. However, he was a gentle soul that would happily give anything he owned to those that needed it. He gave homes to so many cats I lost count over the years, he gave me my first car, and he gave my family a place to live, setting aside a place on his land for us to move when I was a kid. He never complained about us taking his space, never complained about three kids being kids all over his farm, and never complained about the cars going in and out as those kids got older. He was just happy to have family around.
Then there were the stories. My aunt swore that he once, as a much younger man, lifted his car with his bare hands in order to change a tire (With those massive hands, I had no trouble believing it). My dad, when he was still just dating my mom, brought my uncle Tony with him. While there, dad was having car trouble, and got out to work on it. Tony sat in the car. My grandfather came out and chatted with my dad, then asked who was in the car. My uncle got out of the car to say hello, and my grandpa said hello, pulled out a pistol, and fired a shot between his feet. My uncle jumped back into the car and refused to get out. There was also the matter of the road we lived on. It was a holler, with just five houses all the way at the end of it. Many years ago, to benefit the 911 system, every road, even the back roads, were given names. Our road was officially Mimosa Lane. However, if you went online, to MapQuest, and looked at a map, it was still called Bob May Road, 911 be damned.
A book could be filled with stories about a man who led a sometimes rough, but always interesting life. He wasn't a perfect man; he was stubborn, even as he got older and needed help, and he certainly didn't hide it if he didn't like somebody, but he was a good man. He was slow to anger, and quick to defend those he cared about. When I married, and then re-married, he accepted both of them as his own. As great-grandchildren came into the world, he loved them like they were his own. Even now, if threatened, I'd expect him to rise up and use those still humongous hands to choke the life out of the threat.
I didn't get to spend as much time with my grandfather as I would have liked in recent years. I no longer lived next door, and with children of my own, it just didn't feel like I had time. I wish I had made time. I take solace in the fact that I know he's probably up in heaven right now, maybe watching an old western, surrounded by cats, and probably forcing cake and soda on all the children. I'll always remember his kindness, his laugh, and those hands. I loved him. I'll miss him.
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