Pregnant Roller Skate

That's what I was told my new car looks like last night.

Pregnant roller skate.

Nice.

And here I thought I was being envied my zippy cute red car.

Pregnant. Roller. Skate.

Go figure, considering the Prius is a PWW - Penis With Wheels.

So there, stick that in an interesting anatomical place.

My Grampa

I didn't want to post until I could post this one. Grampa passed away 2 Sundays ago.

We'd visit every summer since I can remember.

Grampa used to smoke a pipe. The smell of pipe smoke brings back those times vividly. Then he stopped smoking the pipe and started chewing tobacco. When he'd take me or me and my brother places in his truck, I used to get embarrassed when he'd open the door at stop lights and spit a wad of tobacco juice out onto the street. He had all sorts of stuff hanging from his rear-view mirror and on his dashboard - little knitted rollerskates, sunglasses, gloves, pouches of tobacco, pens, pencils, tools, tape, and pads of paper.

He'd take me rollerskating in the mornings. He loved showing me off to all his skater friends. He taught me the circle waltz and the flea hop. I can still hear the polka music, see the lights and disco ball, taste the snacks, and feel myself sitting in the booths. I envied those daring senior citizen women in their little flirty skating skirts. Grampa was quite the ladies' man. He had 1 or 2 regular women he'd couple skate with but that didn't stop him from laying on the charm to all the other unattached women skaters.

He'd take me and my brother camping and fishing at his friend Ben's pondish lake. He'd pack his truck to the gills with tents, sleeping bags, lanterns, cooking stuff, portapotty, other camping stuff, and fishing gear. He showed us how to worm a hook (yuck), throw the line out, watch the bobber, jerk the pole, and catch blue gills. I can still remember how it felt holding the blue gills and taking the hooks out of their mouths to throw them gently back. Grampa always tried for one of the bass near the reeds. He was very patient and worked that fly fishing pole like a pro. He'd make a fire each night and my brother and I would wake up to the smell of eggs and bacon and him saying " 'bout time you woke up. The fish are already awake!"

He'd wake me up very early in the morning to go to the flea markets. He was always keeping an eagle eye out for tools or other hardware bargins. I still have the Nancy Drew board game from the '50s that we found. I also still have the army gas mask bag I used for years as a purse.

He made my brother and I scooters with copper plumbing pipe for handles, wood for the foot board, and skateboard wheels. That was one of the best toys ever as we scooted all over their bumpy sidewalked neighborhood. There was always stuff in the attic to explore and play with like old board games and toys, Ouija board, clothes, lots of dressers with full drawers, button tins, pots&pans, and photographs. The basement had even more stuff in it plus the Bumper Pool table. Grampa spent a lot of time trying to teach me how to use angles and the sides of the table to sink the balls in the pockets. I'm afraid I wasn't much of a student.

At night, while he watched Barney Miller, I'd lean up against his chair and he'd brush/stroke my hair for a long time. I always felt loved and comforted, knowing the family was safe and sound, everyone was quiet after a long day of vacationing, and I was Grampa's favorite.

After college ended, I took a hiatus from visiting every summer - you know, busy being young and an irresponsible 20-something year old. I started visiting again in 2002. Things had changed but also stayed the same. He was in a different house but the basement and garage were just as jam-packed as I remembered from my childhood. Gramma had died but the spare room was essentially her bedroom transplanted. He wasn't rollerskating anymore but he was bowling and still loved showing me off and instructing me that the direction that my thumb is pointing is the direction my ball will go. He wasn't visiting flea markets anymore but he was going to Goodwill and Salvation Army regularly.

When I visited, we talked more, grown-up talks. My life and his memories.

We ate out but also made stuff like cookies and ice-cream sundaes.

We watched The Price Is Right.

We napped whenever we felt like it.

We bowled, grocery shopped, Goodwilled, and Armied.

I'd trim his hedges and he'd mow the lawn.

We'd sit in his driveway in metal lawn chairs in the sun for hours, silent or talking, watching the birds.

No schedule, no stress. Just a true visit and vacation.

But each year, Grampa was doing less and less.

One year he wasn't bowling anymore. The next he was using more oxygen. A couple of years later he wasn't mowing as much and there was more napping and sitting in the sun. The year before this last visit, he let me mow his lawn.

The visit this past May was the hardest. I knew in my heart there was a good chance I wasn't going to visit him next May.

I was right.

I got a call Wednesday night telling me he was in the hospital and he had several days or several months left. After some lightening arrangements, my parents and I drove down to Ohio on Friday and we were able to spend all day Saturday with him. He was confused and mostly incoherent, but he recognized me and responded to my voice. I know on some level he knew we were there to say goodbye even though I didn't actually say it. He passed away very early Sunday morning.

I did tell him that Wednesday night (before he stopped talking) on the phone that I loved him. And he said "same here" like he always did when I told him that.

I miss him.