My Grandfather
Time has taught me to appreciate him more
By Jim LaJoie
My mother and her twin brother were the youngest of 13. You read that right: 13. My grandparents were in their early 40s at the time of my mom’s birth. After that, my grandmother’s womb gladly, and wearily, retired from a long reproductive life. My grandfather, he who sired said 13, was a vigorous man up until the day he died in his mid-80s.
He was a tall, lanky, wiry-strong man with an intimidating presence. His parents came over from Italy in the late 1800s settling in coal-country Pennsylvania where he was born in 1893. He worked the coal mines when a teenager, was a member of an apparently pugnacious union, married my grandmother who grew up in the same Italian enclave he did, and moved to Massachusetts in his early 20s. He found time to start several small businesses in between producing a large family. Right up until his death, he worked hard. I remember him, even in his early 80s, hauling bags of mulch and grass seed that younger men may have buckled under. His Italian ancestry produced a slightly dark, olive skin tone and coupled with his deeply brown eyes - almost black – and silent nature gave him a slightly menacing countenance. Even in his later years - with sons who were younger, taller, bigger, stronger - he commanded deep respect. No one thought to mess with him, even in his advanced years. Although I always respected him when he was alive, out of a mix of obedience to my mother and the knowledge he would have thought nothing of a quick smack to the back of my head, I never fully appreciated the man he was in my youth. Yes, he was an intimidating guy. He was also, though, a man of principal, a family man, a man who worked hard for everything he got. To me he was always a caring, if somewhat stern, grandpa. To me, he was someone to admire. It just took me far too long to come to that realization and, sadly, he had passed by then.
We used to go over to my grandparents nearly every Sunday for dinner. My grandfather, sitting at the head of the table, would make me sit to the left of him. There my grandmother would serve my grandfather and I our dinners before she fed herself, as was the accepted practice of the time. My grandmother was a great cook. My love of Italian food comes in part from those wonderful meals she served when I was younger. After dinner, my grandfather would beckon me to follow him into the den. He would sit in his chair – no one else was to sit there and no one dared to – and light a cigar. Since he had me sit in the chair next to him, no more than a foot away, the smoke from the cigar would come wafting my way. I hated the smell of that cigar. It would burn my eyes and make me slightly nauseous. He would then turn the television on. He would typically just watch westerns. He would make a great point every single Sunday of telling me that the person I just saw getting shot was just an actor, he didn’t really die. Even at 7 or 8 years old I knew that but would nod at him as if he was a wise Solomonic figure and I a mere mortal trying to understand his divine words. I remember other things he told me that at the time left me wondering if he was senile. Things such as “time speeds up when you are older.” How can that be, my younger self thought? The older me now says or thinks that regularly.
If I had just a few minutes with my grandfather again, I would certainly tell him three things: one, you were much wiser than I ever gave you credit for; two, you were someone I respected deeply; and three, grandpa: I never told you this, but I loved you, no matter how crazy you sounded to the younger me.
About the author: Jim LaJoie was born and raised in Massachusetts but fled the harsh winters by fleeing to North Carolina. He has lived more decades than he cares to admit.
