I missed the memo about blue eyes, big hands, and the art of staying busy.

A few months back, a wrote a little something about my Grandma, who died a few years ago.  After she died, my Grandpa decided to simplify things by selling the big old house where he and Grandma had raised their family.  He moved to a fairly swanky seniors community where he had a lake view, hot meals prepared every day, and no shortage of  female admirers.  In a place like this, any guy in his 80s who’s got most of his teeth is going to be the beau of the ball…but my Grandpa really was handsome….check him out:

He was in his late 50s here, I think.  Back in his 20s and 30s, he looked like Mel Gibson.   And I’m not talking wild-eyed, mug shot Mel Gibson, I’m talking  The Year of Living Dangerously Mel Gibson.  Seriously, Grandpa had these big blue eyes that never lost their sparkle.  Even as an octogenarian, he was a cutie.

And check out the paws on this guy.  As a child,  I was in awe of my Grandpa’s hands.  Within our family, it was widely rumored that Grandpa was fully capable of picking up a child by his or her head, one-handed.  I made it a point never to find out if that was actually true.

But those big hands were dextrous.  Grandpa worked for phone company for decades and in that time handled countless miles of wire, deftly handling the delicate stuff that made phones work before satellites came along and changed the game.

Even after he retired, he had to keep those big hands busy.  His house and car were full of all sorts of Macgyver-esque improvisations of engineering.  He became the neighborhood handy man and he loved to tinker and do jigsaw puzzles.  Anything to keep his hands busy.

While he enjoyed the ease and activities at his condo, I think my Grandpa missed having a whole houseful of stuff to tinker with.  He still mended the occasional clock radio for a neighbor, but it just wasn’t quite the same.  And I wonder if being less busy, and perhaps losing some of his sense of purpose, made life a little harder for my Grandpa in some ways.

My Grandpa died last month, somewhat unexpectedly, given his relatively good health for a man his age.   If we each get a custom-fit version of heaven, I suppose in his, he’s restored to the ravishing good looks of  his youth and there are broken toasters as far as the eye can see.  If he can rewire things for all eternity, then I think his soul will be at peace.  Love you and miss you, Grandpa.  Memo received.

I missed the memo about pimento cheese, love, and whatever…

One of the few benefits of being born when your parents are both 19 years old is that your grandparents are proportionately young.  My grandparents were active and vital during my childhood and as I grew into an adult, it was fascinating to get to know them and appreciate them in lots of different ways. 

I was lucky to have my paternal grandmother, Mona Mills Walker, in my life for a long, long time.  She lived to see me become a mom and seeing her hold my son when he was just a few weeks old was a tender moment that I will never, ever forget. 

It’s been a couple of years now since my Grandma died and I think it’s taken me a while to really reflect on the legacy she left me.  One thing I’ll always remember is that she had some wonderful and traditional notions of hospitality.  When guests came to call, she was ready with her world-famous pimento cheese spread and a box of Triscuits.  Her cooking was amazing, but it was this simple snack that everyone always begged her for.  And when she sent you on your way, it was always with a sack full of snacks for the road, including an extra tub of that deliciously tangy, unnaturally orange cheese spread. 

Another manifestation of her hospitality was that she kept the guest bedroom in her house wonderfully appointed with just about anything a visitor could need.  There was a luggage rack in the corner and a hair dryer tucked in the drawer of the dressing table, just like a hotel.  And there were always baskets full of magazines and paperbacks for quiet moments and bedtime reading. 

It was during a particularly lazy visit to my Grandma’s house that I spent a great deal of time perusing all those paperbacks.  She had a copy of Leo Buscalgia‘s “Love” and I quickly read it cover to cover. 

Dr. Buscalgia died back in 1989, but in his day, he was a bit of a sensation with the PBS crowd as he delivered unapologetically positive messages about the power of love.  To our 21st century sensibilities, he might seem a little corny and over the top, but it was clear from his words that he absolutely believed that people have the power to heal a lot of what’s wrong in the world just by opening themselves up to love.  He might have been on to something.

Now, my Grandma was never particularly affectionate or effusive, and I never begrudged her that.   But when I realized she was a fan of Leo Buscalgia’s, I kinda felt like I was on to her.  She might have sometimes been a bit tough and cool on the exterior, but underneath, there was a tender heart.  And I know she loved me. 

And here’s one more thing…we sometimes teased my Grandma that her tombstone would be inscribed with one word:  “Whatever”.  My Grandma said “whatever” before saying “whatever” was cool. 

But here’s the thing…she didn’t say it in a rude, dismissive way.  When my Grandma said “whatever” it was usually after she had delivered a treatise on what she thought would be the most productive and appropriate plan of action for the situation at hand.  She was a master organizer and she was kinda pushy, but in a good way.   “Whatever” was shorthand for “I’ve said my piece, you know I’m right, but do what you want.”   I can’t begin to do this dynamic any justice, but there was something graceful about it….maybe it was the way she delivered the word in her wonderfully deep, raspy southern drawl.  It was just kind of adorable how she would order everybody around, but then take that little moment to soften the matriarchal tyranny with just one word.

It’s now my hope that I’ll someday embody some of the best of my Grandma.  So for a start, I better get crackin’ on a signature recipe and a catchphrase.  Memo received.