A few seemingly random thoughts about my grandfather

My grandfather was born in 1911. I know this because that date is tattooed on my left arm. Along with 2006. That was the year he died. Right above those dates you’ll find the exact same information for my grandmother, who died in 2005. My grandfather died a year after my grandmother, almost to the day.

My grandfather died because he had a job to do, and then it was done.

My grandparents met in jail. He was a guard and she was visiting a relative. An uncle. Like most information about my family, this is legend. It may or may not have actually happened, but this is how we tell it. So this is how I tell it. And by telling it I’m continuing the legend. They met when she was visiting a relative in prison. An uncle who was in jail for being a political dissident. This is also legend. The real story may be a little more pedestrian than that, and in this particular case I am willinging continuing the legend that he was a political dissident.

My grandfather was married when they met. My grandmother was single. What happened next is more cloudy than legend, and when I ask family members about it there’s a lot of handwaving. “Things worked themselves out.”

What is not legend is that my grandmother was a force of nature. This is not legend because I saw it several times with my own eyes. Once my grandmother locked in on something, it was hers.

Early in their marriage my grandfather understood that his story would become her story. The exact details of that event are a legend that I am more comfortable allowing to pass from legend to myth, because they are ugly and, in spite of it, I love my grandfather. We buried those details with both of them.

None of us are saints, but we all have the capacity for saintly acts within us.

My grandparents had a padlock on their phone. This was back when phone had rotary dials. The hole over the numeral 1 had a lock in it which kept the dial from turning past. My grandmother kept the key in her purse. My grandfather wasn’t allowed to make a phone call without her permission. I never asked either of them why. You didn’t do things like that in my family. You didn’t ask why. It either led to a slap or a family secret you weren’t ready for yet. You just accepted them and rerouted. My grandfather became an expert at rerouting. Our afternoon walks usually included sneaking into a bar, a taverna, and asking the owner if he could use the phone in the back.

He understood he had a job to do, and then it was done.

My grandfather raised canaries. He built a walk-in birdcage on the back porch. My grandmother hated it. It was tall enough that he could stand in it. We weren’t allowed inside. Every morning he boiled eggs and mixed them into the birdseed to feed the canaries. It wasn’t until much later that it occurred to me what a pure act of cannibalism feeding eggs to a bird was, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He’d stand in the birdcage, feeding the birds, wearing pants and suspenders with no shirt, his hernia girdle in full view. And the birds would eat out of his hands.

He understood he had a job to do, and then it was done.

When my grandmother went into a nursing home, my grandfather walked across town every day to have lunch with her. In the ten years she was in the home he never missed a day unless he had a doctor’s appointment. He’d long since stopped going to church. He went to see her instead. Two kilometers there. Lunch together. Two kilometers back. Every day. Sometimes he’d stop for flowers. If it was the right time of year he’d stop for peaches, which he wrapped in a clean handkerchief and put in his coat pocket. When he got to the home he’d pull the the peaches out, unwrap them, spread the handkerchief on the table and use his pocket knife to slice them into pieces small enough for her. This is how they ate together for ten years.

Two years into his walks to the home he started needing the help of a cane. Towards the end he even accepted a ride once in awhile, but not often. He had a job to do and it wasn’t done yet.

The day my grandmother died he released the canaries.

A month after my grandmother died I went to visit my grandfather. The house smelled like warm olive oil. Altars. Every room had an altar in it. Framed pictures of my grandmother, my father, my great grandparents, grandchildren. Mostly of my grandmother though. The olive oil smell came from the assorted dishes in front of each altar where a small wick floated. Grandpa you’re going to set the house on fire, I said. The altar in his bedroom, which used to be their bedroom, was nothing but photos of my grandmother. It was the largest one in the house.

The lock was still on the phone. He knew where the key was. He just didn’t feel right removing it.

A few months after my grandmother died, my grandfather collapsed on the street. He was on his way to the nursing home. He’d never stopped going. They kept feeding him. And he kept bringing peaches. Which he ate by himself. He ended up in the home after that episode, unable to take care of himself. A year after she died, almost to the day, he died as well. When we received his death certificate my grandmother wasn’t listed as his wife. He’d never divorced his first wife. But for ten years he walked to have lunch with my grandmother. Every single day. Sometimes with peaches. Sometimes with flowers. Sometimes smelling like canary shit. He didn’t miss a day.

None of us are saints, but we all have the capacity for saintly acts. We have jobs to do. And then they’re done.