I Miss Grandpa and Grandma

Josephine and Anthony

I suppose at one time or another each of us is exposed to people who have such character that it emblazons us with an impression that remains with us for a lifetime. For me, those types of impressions come from my maternal grandparents. My grandfather was really a character in every sense of the word.

Grandpa’s name was Anthony. Grandpa came to this country in the 1920’s with nothing but the shirt on his back and worked manual labor his whole life. Grandpa was built like a tank. Like so many others of his time he had little or no education and spoke broken English. I say this affectionately but his understanding of the world was very limited from the start. However, it gave him innocence and a charm like no other person I have ever met. Racism, for example, was a word that Grandpa couldn’t spell let alone explain or practice.

Grandpa’s being was totally composed of love with a heart of gold. Anyone who ever met Grandpa automatically loved him. He strode through life without a care or concern about anything. He would often say, “Don’t worry for nothing” which came out more like, “Don’t vorry fer notting.” This lackadaisical demeanor, however, got him into a fair amount of trouble over the years especially in regard to large work projects. He had virtually no concept of danger.

My dad often said to people, “My father-in-law will do anything for anybody, of course, he’ll probably screw it up.” In all honestly my dad had a right to say that given that he was the victim of Grandpa’s catastrophes more than once. By some miracle no one was ever hurt. My mother said upon Grandpa’s death that God gave his guardian angel a full retirement and a bonus.

A passage by Erasmus pretty accurately describes Grandpa, “In a world where men are mostly at odds, all are as one in their attitude toward these innocents. They are sought out and sheltered; everyone permits them to do and say what they wish with impunity. Even the wild beasts perceive their harmlessness and do not attack them. They are sacred to the gods…” 

There are many to choose from but if I may I would like to share two stories about my grandfather.

One day my dad was recovering from a painful sinus operation. We lived in a noisy commercial district so my mother suggested that my dad should go to her parent’s house to relax. Grandpa and Grandma had a breezy sun porch that was a great place to sleep. Dad agreed so he went over and began to rest.

Grandpa had some sort of an incinerator in the basement. Calling it an incinerator was a bit of an understatement. It was more of a blast furnace located in a dark part of the basement of their old house. It would have made a great set in a horror movie. I’m sure that there were criteria in terms of what could be thrown into such a furnace but if there was I never heard about them from Grandpa. Grandpa felt that if you could get anything hot enough it would burn.

The furnace was located below the area of the sun porch where my dad was sleeping on this particular day. Grandpa was in the basement loading up the incinerator. When he opened the steel door of that monstrosity it was like catching a glimpse of the scorching gates of hell. Somehow or another a compressed spray-paint canister made its way into the infernal mouth of the machine.

Meanwhile my dad was sleeping above in the sun porch on a glider. The cool breeze was gently lifting the curtains in front of the open windows and the birds were softly chirping outside. Then, without warning, a huge blast radiated from the depths of the foundation. The concussion tossed the glider back and forth and threw my dad onto the floor.

My dad, very startled at that moment, ran downstairs and screamed at Grandpa, “Jesus Christ, Anthony! What in the hell was that?” Grandpa replied, “Huh?”

Dad, getting very frustrated at this point, again asked, “What in the hell just exploded?” Grandpa was always wiping his glasses with an old hanky. As he inspected his spectacles he turned to my dad and said, “That’s notting don’t vorry ‘bout it.”

Dad hopped in his car and came home. As he burst through the door at home he shouted at my mom, “Don’t ever make me go over to your dad’s to rest again!”

On another occasion something needed fixed on the roof of a friend’s house. This was one of those old high three-story city houses that sat up on a bank. The houses were situated close together and the electrical wires for the street were strewn between poles that ran right in front of the very small front yards.

Grandpa and Grandma arrived at their friend’s home early in the morning. They were the typical old couple that was always bickering. Grandma, in her lecture tone, said to Grandpa, “Anthony, there was frost last night. You better not go up on the roof yet. Wait a little bit.” Grandpa replied, “You don’t know whatcha talkin’ bout.”

Grandpa proceeded to rig up his ladders and went up on the roof. So, at that point Grandma went into the house to sit in the kitchen with the woman of the house to no doubt catch up on gossip. They sat there a while and sipped on coffee.

It wasn’t long before Grandma and her friend heard a voice from outside yelling, “Hey buddy! Are you okay?” They looked out the window and saw the mailman out in the street looking up. Grandma said, “Oh my God I bet it’s the old man.”

They ran outside and there was Grandpa dangling over the street from the electrical wires. He had slipped off the slope of the roof, which threw him out over the street. On his way down he managed to grab one of the wires. Grandpa was strong and was trying to go hand over hand along the wire to the pole to shimmy down.

Grandma, with her hands folded in prayer, was shouting, “Matka Boska! Matka Boska!” (Mother Mary! Mother Mary!) Grandpa looked down at her and said, “Shut that you crazy damn mout’.”

The mailman instructed Grandpa not to touch any of the other wires. The mailman positioned Grandpa’s ladder under him against the pole and Grandpa let himself just drop onto it.

Through all the craziness Grandpa and Grandma loved each other. They were married over sixty-three years and raised two children. When people visited them, no matter how long they stayed, when it was time to go Grandpa and Grandma always asked them, “Why you leavin’ already?”

None of Grandpa’s buffoonery could hide this sweet and gentile man from those around him. No one could ever stay mad at him. At weddings and reunions there was always a crowd gathered around my grandparents to hear their latest story. Grandma would always get mad about that and ask, “Can’t we talk about something else?”

My dad always joked that his father-in-law was The Three Stooges rolled into one, but he never met a nicer man.

Grandpa left this world at 89 years of age. He was never really sick a day in his life, one day it was just his time. Grandma fell ill and died within a year after Grandpa. She just wasn’t the same without her strong ox by her side. Grandma was ahead of her time and loved gadgets. She surely would have me set her up with a smart phone if she was here today.

I tried to comfort my Grandma on her deathbed by saying to her that she had more than sixty-three wonderful years with Grandpa. Grandma was not sentimental even then and said; “How that son-of-a-bitch made it across the ocean to find me I’ll never know.” Of course that was her way of saying that she wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Not to close with a cliché but they really, really, do not make them like that anymore. People like them built this country.

Not a day goes by that I do not miss them.

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10 thoughts on “I Miss Grandpa and Grandma”

  1. Every child needs people like your grandparents in their lives, people who give them a model of how to live with gusto and grace. Loved your stories of these two beautiful people.

  2. Great memoir! I lived near my Mom’s parents for several years and they also taught me many character lessons, as well as my love for traveling.

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