Sass and Ennui

Anecdotes tell part of the story of a person’s life, but not always the most important parts. Grandpa communicated by telling stories, and you knew when something important – something glaring, perhaps, or something inappropriate for ears younger than 18 – was missing because his eyes would twinkle. There was always that twinkle there. Sometimes that twinkle told you more. Sometimes we’d twinkle back and a whole other conversation was going on in the corners of eyes.

He wasn’t that big of a man (and by that I mean in height – we all know how he loved his potatoes), but he had a huge heart. Because of his upbringing in a big family in the neighborhoods of north Minneapolis, he was infinitely accepting, and he passed this ahead-of-his-time open-mindedness on to his children and grandchildren. He never assumed anything and always gave people the benefit of the doubt. He aimed to like everyone equally.

He was deliberately and purposely unpretentious. Once, when I was in junior high, I said, “That’s not my intention,” and he, eyes twinkling, countered with, “And you don’t want to do it, either.” He challenged each of us, whenever we acted like smarty-pants, to think about how we really didn’t know anything at all; that we really weren’t important. Yet, when we performed in plays or played sports, he was the first to give us hugs and tell us good job. He wanted us to be smart and accomplish the things we aimed to do, but not buy into our own hype or ego. I don’t know anyone in the family who hasn’t taken that lesson to heart. We all want to do the best we can, but none of us think we’re amazing special snowflakes. At least not intentionally.

I will miss the dismissive “aaaaeeeeh” grumble Grandpa made after a political conversation on Christmas Eve turned sour and he grew annoyed with Tim-John-Joel-Jeff-Greg and went outside to smoke a cigar instead of talking to his asshole sons.

I will miss how he would correct every detail of a story Grandma was telling, thereby increasing the time it took to tell it by 50 percent (at least) and sidetracking it into innumerable smaller stories about people the listener didn’t even know.

I will miss the riling and joshing about whatever the topic might be. Grandpa was a terrific teaser when he liked you. But if he didn’t like you, he kept his mouth shut.

I will miss hearing tales of his youth and the naughty stuff he did. No wonder he was so forgiving of the grandkids; we never collected residual gasoline in a can and lit a street on fire.

I will miss how he had a special nickname for so many of his grandchildren that no one else ever used. Jenny Poo, Con-Man, etc.

But most of all, I will miss his laugh and his smile. Both were incredibly contagious; filled with levity and forgiveness. He was the kind of person you can’t forget: kind, generous and never believing he was all that special. Well, Grandpa, you were. And tonight I bet we’ll be smoking cigars for you. We promise to always tell your stories, even if some portions are embellished or left out, with a twinkle in our eyes.

I was back in the homeland of rural northwestern Wisconsin a couple of weeks ago, and, really, it explained it all.

It explained why I feel the need to talk to random people in stores. And why I know the names of trees and plants. And why my mother and I fight so much and hug so hard.

It explained why I tell stories (from the long oral tradition of the Midwest, I say). It explained why I love quiet, desolate (but not dead) landscapes and runs through cool air. It explained my near-constant desire to cultivate that “You’re not from around these parts” look from anyone, anywhere.

I remember dogs, chocolate labs, and how they groan while you scratch inside their ears. And pheasants; I remember how they rush out of ditches hellbent on death under wheels.

The chicken coop is rotting, though.