Saturday, December 15, 2012
It is hard to determine what I miss more...his hugs or his stories. My Grandpa was an open book...he wielded his stories from his adventures with natural arcs that blended to form the exact string of words you needed to hear. A perfect story teller...lessons and wisdom wrapped up in wildly entertaining packaging. I could sit for hours listening to him. He enjoyed his youth...cars and lovely ladies...and school...well...it was just the place where he could play his sax and park his sedan. When World War II came along, he was drafted and it broke him. His spirit, his lust for life...it was all gone...and it made the rest of his life very hard. For one, he was one of the lucky ones from the greatest generation to come back...and he felt guilty about it every single day of his life.
He held my feet to the fire. He taught me how to work hard and never do anything half-assed. He drove me to my first job interview...I was a high school junior interviewing for a summer student job that I was competing with college students for. He knew that I had nailed my interviewed and had in turn sealed my future (my career) at the place that I longed to work for. I'm still there...working hard. He believed in me. He always encouraged my writing...he thought my words were powerful...even if he did not always agree with them. He believed in me. He still does.
Other Musings about Grandpa...