Remembering Grampy

My father passed away this week. While I am a bit sad and I have shed some tears, I am truly not devastated. He lived to be 81 years old, he saw a grandchild get married, he visited nearly every continent and he lived with a serious cancer diagnosis for six years longer than we expected.

As I reflect back on his life, or at least my life with him, I thought it would be cathartic to write down three of my favorite stories about my relationship with my dad.

Childhood
There are so many wild and wonderful stories that I could tell, but one stands out. I am not sure that I actually remember this, or if I have just heard it so many times that it has become part of my childhood memories.

When I was three, we moved into the house that we would have for over 20 years – 523 Bonhomme Forest. I am the youngest of four and there is a 6 ½ year age gap between me and my closest sibling. Therefore, I was the only young child in the house for several years. When my dad would come home from work, he would walk in the back door to the kitchen and he would stomp his feet loudly. That was my cue that he was home and wherever I was playing in the house, I would bolt to the kitchen and run and jump into his arms. This became our ritual and I treasured it.

The story about this ritual goes something like this: One night, as soon as Dad walked into the kitchen, he had to take a telephone call (from a wall phone – no cell phones or portables in those days.) I came downstairs and was surprised and disappointed that he hadn’t stomped and then caught me as I jumped in his arms. Legend has it that I reached up and tugged on his jacket. He told the caller to hold on and turned to me and I said “if you look down, you will see a small child who needs a hug.” As any great father would do, he set the phone down and scooped me into his arms. Honestly, most of my childhood was filled with precious moments such as this.

Adulthood
Again, there are many stories to choose from as I moved through college and started my career, but one particularly funny one stands out.

When I was 29 years old, I was invited to interview for a big promotion with my current employer. The position was in Austin, TX where my father just happened to live. When he heard that I was flying in for an interview, he was thrilled. He picked me up at the airport the night before and took me to dinner. He had mapped out the best route to get to the site of my interview and had test-driven it that morning to make sure we allowed adequate time for rush hour traffic. I arrived at my interview with plenty of time, kissed my dad and promised to call when I was through.

The man that was the hiring manager held an influential position and was warm, compassionate and very smart. I had actually met him years early, as I graduated from high school with his son. In my professional naivety, I assumed he would remember that and referenced that we had met before, through his son. He seemed shocked to realize that I was the same age as his child, and here I was interviewing with him for a fairly strategic position. He was definitely taken back by my age, but continued the interview with the utmost professionalism. When the day was complete, he came to see me off and thank me for coming to Austin. He asked if his secretary should call a taxi cab for me and I blurted out “that’s okay, my dad is on his way to pick me up,” like I am a teenager at the mall, not a candidate for a promotion in a large company. It was quite embarrassing, but the happy footnote is that I got the job, moved to Austin, met Tim Runyan and the rest is history.

As a grandfather
My dad was very involved in the lives of my daughters and he even pitched in when we were desperate for a baby-sitter. As they grew to be toddlers, my dad’s passion for shopping at ‘Big Lots’ took on a new purpose. He would buy crayons and water balloons and plastic ponies and dress up outfits and a million other worthless, cheap things that would delight our girls. Tim tried to keep some order in our house and jokingly chastised my dad about the clutter he brought with him whenever he visited. This led my dad to keep all of his ‘Big Lots’ treasures in a box that he would take with him when he left. Therefore, when Grampy arrived, much time and excitement was spent looking at the new items in his box. Tim and I began to refer to this as the ‘box of crap’.

The girls spend their pre-school years in a wonderful, loving daycare run by Ms. Soraya. She was a lovely woman and was very religious. She provided our girls with a tender atmosphere to play and grow, firmly rooted in religious teachings. At one of her many open houses, my father joined us, as he often did. One of the girls introduced him with great animation and said “this is my Grampy. When he comes to our house, he always brings the box of crap.” Ms. Soraya was immediately taken back and assumed she had misheard because one of her precious babies would certainly not utter a curse word. My quick-thinking husband saved the day when he said “box of crafts, sweetie. It’s a box of crafts.” Whew. We might have been expelled if she had known the truth.

In closing
I could go on for pages and pages with funny and heart-warming stories about Grampy. He was as complex of a character as most of us are and there were times when I would get frustrated with him, but those were certainly the exceptions. I am lucky that I was so loved by a great man and that my children have benefitted by knowing and remembering their Grampy who cared for them so deeply. Rest in peace, Grampy.