Memories of Grandpa

For some reason I’ve been feeling nostalgic lately, taking long walks down Memory Lane, reliving childhood memories. Inevitably, most (if not all) of my favorite and happiest childhood memories involve my Grandpa.

My Grandpa was awesome. My mom was a teenage mother, so when I was born, the story goes, the family (“family” meaning my mom and my grandpa) got their collective shit together and decided to “settle down” to make a nice little home for the bundle of joy my mom was going to be bringing home. Settling down meant my Grandpa purchased a trailer in Harrison Township on a nice little residential street that ended at Lake St. Clair. And before you make any cracks about me living in a trailer park – oh contraire….it was not a trailer park. It was a street that had houses on it and there were also some trailers too. One side of the streets were woods, and like I said, it ended at the Lake. No trailer park – but a trailer was all Grandpa could afford.

The trailer was a traditional one like you’d picture – it was white with dark brown trim, with windows you had to open by turning a crank. It was above the ground, so to get up into it, you had to use steps. We had a little step porch-thing – I really wouldn’t describe it as a true porch, since really only one person could stand at the top at a time, but I can’t think of a better word. It had 3 bedrooms, a living room, kitchen and bathroom/laundry room. There was a backdoor on the thing, but there were no steps to that door, so as a kid I used to love to open the door and freak myself out a bit. The drop was probably less than 5 feet, but when you’re a kid – 5 feet is quite a drop. It didn’t have a skirt around it, probably because those things are expensive. So weeds and whatever grew under my trailer, and sometimes, when I was lazy, it was a nice little shelter for my bike.

I can’t imagine how long it was – because, as a kid, like I said, everything seems large. But it wasn’t even a double-wide. It was a single-wide, standard-sized trailer. And it was home. I had my own bedroom, and I even had my own TV. It was a little 13-inch black and white TV, but hey, it was all mine (it was a gift from Grandpa). I remember coming home from school to watch “The Monkees” or “Scooby-Doo” on it. Eventually, when I moved in with my parents the TV came with me – because I can also remember watching “Happy Days” and “Battle of the Network Stars” on it in my bedroom at our first house.

Grandpa was a lenient disciplinarian. I can only remember him spanking me once, and I was so outraged, I threatened to run away from home. Grandpa replied by showing me the door, so I packed some food (which consisted of one red delicious apple…kids sure don’t plan ahead) and I walked out the door in my anger. Once I got outside, reality hit me. Where would I go? I probably only sat out there a few minutes before I came back inside the house, only slightly less indignant – I was not a “tail-between-the-legs” type. Grandpa never teased me over it, and it was never spoken of again.

Grandpa was the type of guy that would let you come and sleep with him when you had a bad dream. I can remember only doing it a couple of times, but I can remember getting up in the middle of the night and going into his room and asking if I could sleep with him. He wore pajamas like you see in old movies – with a button down shirt and pants. The type of pajama no one wears anymore.

Grandpa had a southern drawl too, and wouldn’t call me by my name – he would call me “youngin” or “suge” (like in Suge Knight…or short for “sugar”). He was born in 1909 in Mississippi and also lived in Louisiana. He was a World War II veteran and didn’t finish high school. He was hardworking and spent the years I knew him working in a tool and die shop. He always wore those dark blue work pants and dark blue work shirts with his name on the patch. He got up early for work so there was a time when the high school girl down the street would babysit me in the morning after he left. My mom would deny it, but there was a time period where she left me with him and she didn’t live with us. Maybe she was serving time or something (just kidding). But I can remember one morning when Grandpa was at work, and the high school girl had left me so she could go to school, and I was left alone in the trailer. I was watching Captain Kangaroo and I knew what time I was supposed to leave for the bus stop in order to get to school. Apparently, this particular episode of Captain Kangaroo was fascinating (maybe Mr. Green Jeans was doing something interesting???) and I missed my bus. I was probably about 6 years old, and as you can imagine, the panic ensued. I didn’t know what to do except call Grandpa at work and tell him I missed the bus. He told me that I better go ask one of the neighbors for a ride because he couldn’t leave work. I ended up asking one of our neighbors and she gave me a ride to school, but this memory always amazes me. Could you imagine any of this happening in our world today? Simpler times, I guess.

Grandpa and I spent a lot of Sundays at the local VFW hall. I would get a hamburger and a Shirley Temple cocktail to drink (complete with the maraschino cherry, orange wedge, and little plastic sword). There usually weren’t a lot of children there to play with, but they had a kickass playground, and in the summer I would play outside, while Grandpa shot the shit with his WWII buddies. In the winter, I’d burn through quarters on their pinball machine. I was a damn good pinball player even then. I still love pinball to this day, and whenever I am in an arcade, I lose my shit if I see a pinball machine. On our way home from the VFW hall, we’d stop at Dairy Queen where my grandpa would get me a small vanilla cone dipped in chocolate. This is the same exact thing I order at DQ to this day. And it puts a smile on my face every time.

Grandpa used to play with me outside too. For an old guy, he was pretty active, and I am thankful for that. He would take me out to the lake in the winter to go ice skating, and swimming in the summer. We would sit out in his yard on summer days and have watermelon seed spitting contests, and he bought me my first bicycle. Later, when I graduated from high school, Grandpa also bought me my first typewriter to write my college papers on. He was so proud of me on graduation day. I wish he had lived long enough to see me graduate from college, and then again from law school. I’m sure he would have been beaming with pride.

We would watch football games and he would pop popcorn for us to eat during the game. I can remember him trying to keep me interested in the game by having me watch for when all the players would “jump into a pile”. That was funny to a little kid.

My grandparents were divorced long before I came along and my grandpa was a bit of a Casanova. He liked to ballroom dance (I’m sure he’d enjoy “Dancing with the Stars”) and he had one particular lady friend who he would take out dancing frequently. Her name was “Vi” – short for “Violet” – and I can remember him getting ready for their dates. He was color blind so he would always ask me if his clothes matched. It was the 70s, so he had a vast array of colored leisure suits – one that sticks out in my memory was his sage green one. He would always have me stand on the couch and make sure his collar was down.

Grandpa moved to Florida when I was 13 and it about broke my heart. By that time, my parents had gotten married, my brother was around and I didn’t live with Grandpa anymore. He had retired from his job and the winters became especially hard on him. In the summer, he would drive from Florida and come visit us, spending a few weeks here in Michigan, making sure he saw everyone. His family still lived in Louisiana, and he would go see them too. I used to write him letters and I still have the letters he wrote back to me.

Grandpa died when I was 19, after losing a battle with lung cancer. He never smoked when I knew him, but he was a heavy smoker as a younger man. He died in Florida, but he wasn’t alone. One of my aunts lived in Florida at the time, and my mom was there visiting too. I was kind of pissed at my mom after he died, because I was going to come to Florida one last time. We all knew he was sick and that he was probably going to die. My mom told me not to come and then within a few days, he passed away. I was in the middle of my final exams at college and actually had to take one of the finals the day he died because I couldn’t get in contact with the professor ahead of time to postpone my exam. I don’t remember the exact date of his passing, probably because I don’t want to remember the date, but I think it was December 12.

Grandpa’s funeral was here in Michigan, and he’s buried at Mt. Olivet. His funeral was very nice, and there was even a 21 gun salute at the graveside. My mom and her sisters decided to bury him in his tuxedo, so he made a pretty dapper dead guy. The last time I saw his body, I was standing at the casket with my mom. I kissed him goodbye on the forehead. Grandpa was the only dead person I’ve ever touched, and it was kind of a shock. His forehead felt like cool cement. I will never forget that feeling.

I’ve only been to the cemetery once to visit his gravesite. It was on the one year anniversary of his death. Part of me feels guilty for not visiting him more often, but I don’t think he minds. I think about him all the time and he visits me in dreams sometimes. The last dream I had with him in it – I’m convinced I visited him in heaven. Or at least his version of heaven. He lived in a beautiful oceanside mansion that was a sparkling white. Actually, everything was white – his clothes, furniture, everything. He was with Vi, so I am guessing she has since passed away (I lost touch with her after he died). He looked amazing – healthy, happy, tan….and vibrant. Of the conversation we had, he was telling me how well he was doing, and in the middle of it, my dad interrupted and was yelling to me from the downstairs that I had to leave. I remember feeling like I did not want to leave for anything, but Grandpa told me I had to go. I woke up with an overwhelmingly serene, yet sad feeling. I was so happy to see him again, but so sad out time was cut short.

I don’t think a day goes by where I don’t have a brief memory or thought of Grandpa. Whether it be red delicious apples, vanilla cones dipped in chocolate at DQ, or football games. I also remember Grandpa whenever Husband's dad does things with Daughter. They spent last summer together and are looking forward to spending another summer together. They go swimming, play golf and baseball, and go get lemon ices at Husband’s aunt’s bakery. They ride bikes and go shopping. I get to relive my memories of Grandpa through Daughter and her Papa now. It make me happy that she is going to have an active Papa in her life that will be proud of her on graduation day and will buy her her first laptop to write her college papers on. My only hope is that she gets more years with him than I did.

Old School Fridays

I was driving to work last Friday, listening to my Sirius radio. As you may or may not know, I have a long commute to work now (it's about 50 miles one way) and so I am extremely thankful for my satellite radio.

I usually listen to Howard Stern, but Fridays is is "Best of the Week" show, and of course, the rebroadcast of something I already heard during the week will most likely happen during my morning commute. And if it's not anything that I found particularly funny, I go find entertainment elsewhere.

As I've mentioned before in this blog, I sometimes listen to Sirius' station, OutQ, which is a station dedicated to the LGBT community. Most of the shows on the station are extremely entertaining to me. Their morning show is one of those that I enjoy frequently. A couple of weeks ago, I noticed, however, that the format of the morning show was different. It’s now called “The Morning Jolt” and the host is still the host (Larry Flick), and his sidekick is still there (Keith Price) -- but the bi-sexual woman was gone (Cynthia) and they were playing music between their morning banter, instead of just having a morning talk show.

I couldn't decide whether I loved this new format...because one one hand, there is the stereotype of how gays are on the forefront of all the new, fun, club music (which I am a fan of) but then on the other hand, I loved the talk format so much, I didn't want to listen to music. I wanted to hear what Larry, Keith and Cynthia were chatting about -- and where in the hell did Cynthia go anyway???

My opinion changed this past Friday, when Larry announced it was Old School Friday, then played "La Freak" by Chic. Holy shit! I haven't heard that song in a million years...or at least it felt like a million years. It reminded me of my childhood and where a lot of my love of music came from....

I was born in 1971. My parents met when I was 4 years old, and they got married when I was 8. I spent much of my childhood (the years up until I was 8) moving around, either living with my mom or my grandpa. It was never stable, and constantly changing. (And Pete wonders why I find discomfort in being spontaneous – another story for another time, but you can understand, right?) During the time I lived/spent with my mom, some interesting music memories have stuck out. One was she took me to see an Elton John concert when I was 3 or 4 years old -- I don't remember much from it other than the crazy costumes that he wore and it being really dark except for the spotlight on Elton. Another was when she was driving me to daycare one morning (so again, I’m guessing I was probably about 3 or 4) we were in her Pinto listening to “Cat’s in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin. In case you don’t remember it, it’s the song that goes “Cats in the cradle and the silver spoon, little boy blue and the man on the moon…when you coming home dad, I don’t know when, but we’ll be together then, dad, I know we’ll be together then.” Nice little diddy about being abandoned by your father. I find that memory particularly interesting, considering my biological father (whom I like to refer to as The Sperm Donor) never wanted anything to do with me and basically abandoned my mother and I. (Does anyone wonder why I am so nutty??) Anyway, back to the music memories…

I remember looking through my mother’s album collection, and here’s a sampling of the kind of music she was into: Led Zepplin, Elton John (of course), Jethro Tull, The Beatles, and of course, Barry Manilow. Looking back, I find browsing her record collection to be particularly interesting, because she doesn’t strike me as the type of girl who would rock out to a little Led Zepplin, but apparently, she did. Actually, she’s not all that into music, nor has she ever been. I don’t ever remember her just putting on a record and enjoying it. Ever. My awesome musical memories are thanks to my dad.

Now you all have heard me gripe about my dad. Yes, he’s a shithead sometimes, but he’s still my dad. When he married my mom, he took the steps to adopt me and The Sperm Donor was gracious enough to give up his parental rights so my dad could assume his. I always found this admirable, because after all, I’m not really his kid – you know what I mean. But he always treated me like I was, and more importantly, went to court to rewrite history. And no matter how mad he makes me, or how disappointed I get with him and his irresponsible behavior, I will never forget that he came along and became my dad (albeit a dysfunctional one), but hey. It could have been worse! I digress….

My dad grew up in Highland Park and his high school was racially mixed. Looking through my dad’s album collection, I found records by The Jackson 5, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, The Four Tops, Stevie Wonder – lots and lots of Motown. In the later 1970s, he played a lot of Earth, Wind and Fire, The Commodores, Donna Summer, Rick James, Michael Jackson (when he was still normal)…I could go on and on. Of course, there was also a lot of disco being played – you couldn’t escape the Bee Gees. One of my favorite memories is of my dad playing “Superfreak” when it came out. He would play it loud (a good stereo was always very important to my dad) and he would play it over and over. I also have the same memories of Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls”. Not exactly the most appropriate music for an elementary-school aged child, but it’s not like I knew what they were talking about and the music was funky and enjoyable. Even today, my dad likes to listen to music loud – especially in the car. He’s one of those people. I looked through his CD collection once a couple of years ago just to see if there was anything “good”. Along with Earth, Wind and Fire (one of my favorites too) was Madonna, Prince and Ricky Martin (the good Ricky Martin CD with “Livin La Vida Loca” on it and not the one that came after that one). I can’t scoff at those artists.

Which brings me back to last Friday and The Morning Jolt. When I heard “La Freak” -- I could see my dad, dancing his heart out in the living room. Even though he doesn’t look like Sherman Helmsley, my dad always kind of reminded me of George Jefferson from “The Jeffersons”. Maybe it’s because he sort of moves like George did, maybe it’s because he is balding like George, or maybe it’s because I swear deep inside my dad, there beats the heart of a black man. Or at least there used to be, until he became a Republican. :) The Morning Jolt reminded me how much joy I get from music and I have my dad to thank for exposing me to a lot of R&B, soul and funk music growing up.

I can’t wait for this Friday to come along, so I can tune into another installment of “Old School Fridays” with Larry and Keith. It’s fun to remember this music and experience it with a couple of middle-aged queens (and I’m not being derogatory here, because trust me, they’ve referred to each other as queens) who have a true appreciation for the music and the fun it brings. And you’ll know it’s me when I’m tuning in – I’ll be the one with the volume turned up and singing my heart out, just like dad did in our living room when I was a kid …”Awwww… Freak OUT…La Freak, so chic…Freak Out!....” HELLYES!

What Would I Give to Me Circa 1984?*

*In my friend SG's blog, Perfectly Cursed Life, she makes a post on what she would tell her 13-year-old self -- "What Would I Give to Me Circa 1994?" After reading her post, I started thinking about this same question -- although she gave herself things, wereas, I thought about what advice I would give myself. Of course, I can't be as serious as she is -- so bear with me as a put my own brand of humor on this question, and try to mix in some seriousness too.

Advice I would give to the 13-year-old me:

1. Rick Springfield is not going to come and marry you. He's the same age as your father, so besides it being illegal, it's also gross. So stop dreaming that one day he is going to come and rescue you. And see #7 below.

2. Get involved in some sports or something. The exercise will do your body and mind a lot of good.

3. Get a decent haircut. Your hair is naturally curly -- and you're not going to discover this for another 12 years, so let me help you get through some bad hair years and let you in on this secret now. Have your mother buy you some decent products and run with it. And when I say "decent" I don't mean Dep gel or some crappy mousse, I mean some quality products. Although your mother is naturally cheap and will probably not buy you salon products, but find some liquid gel made by a company that knows hair and use it. Oh and try and grow your hair out. The curls will be nicer.

4. Beg your parents for contacts. I'm sure they are going to be stubborn and not let you get them, but throw a tantrum or something -- you never do it, so maybe they will give in. If you absolutely have to get glasses, get something with a smaller frame and DON'T TINT THEM. You'll cringe in 25 years at old pictures. And don't get the "Battlestar Galactica" ones for God's sake. That was a bad idea.

5. You're not fat so stop thinking you are.

6. You're also not ugly. It's the bad hair and the glasses that are making you think you are. You're actually going to turn out to be really cute.

7. Boys are dumb, so stop putting all of your self-worth and self-esteem in their hands. I know that you're going to continue to do this, so if you can find a way to nip this in the bud at the ripe old age of 13, your 37-year-old self will thank you.

8. Stop being such a picky eater. Try new food and eat more vegatables. God is going to get back at you for this in the form of your daughter. Remember how frustrated mom gets when you won't eat something? You're going to live it when your daughter acts the same way (and yes, you're going to have a daughter).

9. Continue to love books. Books rock (still).

10. Your mom is going to continue to annoy the shit out of you. Just accept it and realize she loves you and is trying her best. You know her mom is a poor example of a mother, so don't be too hard on you when she acts like a jackass.

11. Your family is dysfunctional -- you probably already know this. They are never going to be perfect and are always going to be thorns in your side. You can either accept them the way they are and accept it, or not. If I were you (and I am), it might be easier for you to just accept it and move on.

12. Rebel a little. Life is short. You don't always have to follow the rules. It will do your soul a little bit of good to kiss a few more boys or get drunk a few times in high school. NOT NOW, of course. But do this in high school. The worst thing that will happen is that you'll get caught and get grounded, and since you get grounded for dumb shit like not taking out the garbage, at least get grounded for doing something kick-ass like staying out past your curfew. Just don't turn into an alcoholic or a slut (save those for your 30s...haha)

13. Finish your Master's Degree in English. I know this may not make a lot of sense now, but just do it. Follow your dream of becoming a college professor, because even if it doesn't work out, you can still go to law school when you're 32 and try that out for a bit.

14. I know that being 13 is difficult...just know that after high school, your life is going to get 100x better. College rocks and so does being an adult. Just try and remember that when you're down on life.

15. And last, but not least -- believe in yourself because you are an awesome person. And I'm not just saying it because I'm you -- you really are.

So y'all...what advice would you give your 13-year-old self?