of grandpas and speed limits
by Jessi Purviance
1920 was a good year for a healthy crop of grandpas.
He was toehead blonde with mischievous blue eyes. A skier, a windsurfer, a troublemaker. Skipped out on school, lied about it and hung out on the beach with girls.
He joined the army and was a radio operator in England during the war. Was on the boat to Japan as a part of a planned land attack when the A-bomb was dropped. They turned around and headed home.
I go out in the early morning air to find Grandpa. I find him with his gloves covered in cement, building a little stone retaining wall. He always has new projects, new dreams, new ideas. There is always next year when he can replant his tomatoes and keep them away from the grubby little hands of the raccoon hoard. Another fence to build, more wire to stretch. He talks to me of raspberry patches while we sit on the little stone wall under dappled sunlight. He built this house back when he was young. In his 80's, with his brother who was only 75. It's a beautiful house, with lofty ceilings and picture windows facing the border mountains of Yosemite.
He is a California boy at heart. Born and raised in the golden state. But he has traveled. Worked for a book press company, even living in Russia for a few months. The only important word he remembers is marojna (ice cream).
His first wife died from cancer. Six weeks from diagnosis to death.
He married my grandma the year I was born. They came to Africa to meet me and brought my first pair of shoes. I clung to him from the moment we met. There are some bonds stronger than blood.
He tells me about techniques for grafting apple trees and about the six kinds of rosemary growing along the hillside.
He is so patient. He walks around the house in his slippers, constantly humming.
He is cheerful, even when his hearing loss means he has to say "WHAT?" a few times before he understands what you're saying.
He says things so completely unexpected and witty that your stomach hurts from laughing.
Last year, Grandma had neck surgery and Grandpa, waiting outside the hospital room, had a lady grab him by the arm and try to walk off with him. Even at 92, he's still handsome. But he is thin and wiry now. When I hug him, I feel his shoulder bones and ribcage.
This morning, he is thoughtful. He tells me about the landscaping project he is planning after the retaining wall is finished. He smoothes the cement with his trowel. He asks me about my schoolwork. He tells me he is proud of me. He rinses off his tools under the hose and says it's time to make breakfast.
Driving to church, Grandpa flies around the corners. Grandma squeals and tells him he's going too fast. He doesn't care. At 92, he has the right to do whatever he wants. And he does.
Leaving is hard. I used to cry when I was little and had to say goodbye. I cry again. Visits are never long enough. It is bittersweet, because I am so lucky to have them in my life. I just wish it could last forever.
Grandpa stands, with one arm around Grandma, silhouetted against their porch light, waving.
I am thankful.
