My grandpa lived in, what felt to my little girl eyes like, an enormous house. I don't know actual square footage or anything, but it was massive. It was a duplex in Worcester, Massachusetts. He and Grandma lived on one side and rented out the other. I never saw the other half, but my parents lived there when they were first married, and my siblings knew it as home once upon a time. From their stories, I know that the other half was a exactly the same as my grandparent's house which had a basement, first and second floors, and an attic.
The house made an impact when I walked in. Everything about it was interesting, and to me seemed overwhelming, yet wonderful! For one thing, there was always a record playing. "In a spin, love is the spin I'm in, under that old black magic called love..." or "I'm just a gigolo, everywhere I go, people talk about me..." among others. Super cool, swing style or jazz music that just made you want to sing along. Which he did. As well as tap his toe, dance a little, and let his little granddaughter dance on his feet. As I held on tight, even with the faint smell of mothballs from his sweater filling my nose, it was a special place to be. In the closet was an accordion that I am fairly sure my dad played as a boy, and old red leather bound story books that my sister and I used to run upstairs to read as soon as possible. The house had yellow shag carpeting, and thick, plastic covers on the couches that made the back of your legs pool with sweat on a hot summer day. There was a huge mahogany (or so I am guessing) dining room table with, what I feel very strongly were, lime green seat cushions. I would almost quite literally kill to have that now. It wouldn't go in my house AT ALL, but OH the memories that I have of family dinners in that dining room table. The kitchen had black and white tile floor, and on the fridge were wooden, painted magnets of rainbows, cats, and sailboats. There were paintings on the walls done by my aunt when she was in art school,and..did I mention that yellow carpet? Yes, the house was a huge presence, but the larger presence still was that of the man inside.
My grandpa. I can't tell you when I fell in love with him but I certainly did. Maybe it was during one of my dances on his feet. He was the perfect grandfather. Like, cast directly out of a hollywood script. He wore corduroys, and v neck sweaters. He seemed to always wear a cap when he went out, as a true gentleman should. He was Greek---like full on, 100%. Spoke it, tried in vain to teach it to us, went to a Greek Orthodox church, and passed on his Greek heritage to me and my siblings well enough that for a few truly American (little bit of everything in our blood) kids, if you ask us our heritage we all say we are Greek. We are also other things, Irish, English, who knows what else...the only heritage we identify with is the Greek part.He was the cook in the family. He made us some killer blueberry pancakes whenever we went to visit and spent the night, as well as a great Greek cinnamon chicken dish that we had quite often. I wish I could remember more of his specialties, but he had a lot of them! Grandpa went to Cornell for a year which I thought was so cool because only my SMARTEST friend got into Cornell.
Grandpa was not cuddly. He was gruff. When my grandmother got on his nerves he told her to, "Take a bus Helen". When my mom got on his nerves, he would roll his eyes and fake-agree with her, "Is that right, Cindy? Oh yeah? Yeah, I'm sure you're right, Yeah." Then when she got mad at him for fake-agreeing he would laugh a big laugh like the whole thing entertained him. He said some mildly inappropriate words that only people who have lived through the Great Depression and fought in a World War can get away with saying in front of kids, but they never bothered me. It just added to that gruff exterior that I knew covered a cotton ball soft heart. I think that juxtaposition between the first gruff impression, and the man singing to me as I danced on his feet added to my adoration of him.
I am thinking about Grandpa a lot these days. Partly because the Red Sox are in the World Series. I spent a great many games watching the Red Sox next to Grandpa on the couch listening to him go through all the emotions of life in a nine inning stretch. (He cycled through, "Atta boy" and "What a bunch of bums" repeatedly throughout the games.) Only a true Red Sox fan understands the love-hate relationship. Especially for a fan who loved the team from the 1930's through the early 2000's only to see them FAIL to win the World Series way too many times. Too bad he didn't ever get to see them win one in his lifetime. The other part of my thinking about Grandpa is that his birthday is Thursday. I love that his birthday falls on a "holiday" because while the whole world celebrates costumes and candy, I spend the day thinking of the way my Grandpa loved music, dancing, cooking, and his family. He loved us the way that men of his generation did it, without manicures or hair gel. Just taking care of business. Being there whenever they needed to be, and with an occasional curse word. It was all good. Actually, when it comes to Grandpa, it was all great. I miss that man. Miss him a lot, actually. And today, I am so very thankful for all of the times that we shared.
Happy almost Birthday, Gramps. I hope that bunch of bums doesn't blow it this year! Love you for always.
