on subtle love
learning to embrace the tender moments
This week, I lost my grandfather. I was left with lots of difficult emotions because on the surface he was cranky, harsh, and rigid. His drinks had to be poured just so, the garage organized systematically, and there was no speaking to him while the Phillies were playing. I often felt overwhelmed or upset by this; sometimes it was hard for me to see the ways that he showed love to me.
One thing that I loved about my grandfather was ability to preserve history with his photographs, notes, and clippings. Whenever I would come back from a trip, we would exchange stories about our travels. He would bring out an album for every place he went, with exact dates and names in perfect handwriting. My favorite thing he ever shared with me was his wedding and honeymoon book; he had the original plane tickets to Miami and all of the receipts for his wedding flowers and cake. It struck me as sweet and tender to see the ways in which he preserved these moments.
He was fascinated by the way things worked. In almost every apartment I ever lived in he walked around to inspect the wiring and construction. He left specific notes all around the house - how to use the washing machine, where to put the beach chairs, how to operate the toaster - that left guests stupefied and were often the brunt of jokes. Yet, we always had access to the beach tags, clean towels, and bikes for scooting around Sea Isle.
He showed love through cooking and baking. His chocolate chip cookies were the delight of every holiday. I once asked him for his recipe; he had saved a newspaper article that was called, “the practically perfect cookie” (the secret is dark brown sugar). He would watch me take a bite and then ask me - “tell me that’s not the best cookie you’ve ever had”. It was.
My grandfather cared for my uncle, who has special needs, up until the last day he went to the hospital at 89 years old. The patience it must require to devote your entire life to washing, dressing, and feeding another human is unfathomable to me. To be so selfless as to abandon your own needs and devote yourself entirely to the needs of another?
We are all flawed as humans. I remember one time I was cutting a bagel in our sunny kitchen in Sea Isle. This space was the main domain of my grandfather - the line not to be crossed - and thus I often tread lightly under his watchful eye. As I started slicing open my bagel, my grandfather told me I was “doing it wrong” and said to “give it here” as he snatched it away from me. At the time, I was unable to see beyond my own hurt and probably heaved an exasperated sigh. However, the very thing I perceived as “rigid” was really his way of showing love for me. He did not want me to hurt myself (there was a family lore involving a dull knife and forgone emergency room trip with my mom a few years back) and wanted me to have a nice breakfast.
The moments of connection I did find with my grandfather were usually around things we both loved; using google maps to explore the world (he was truly adept with his iPad), looking at old photographs and listening to music while drinking gin and tonics. To honor him, I am going to try harder to see beyond the surface and find the tender and softer side of people. If we stay where it is shallow, we may never reap the rewards of handwritten letters and perfectly prepared breakfasts. And for his sake, I will always organize the damn* cellar.
*Damn and hell are not curse words, according to my grandfather.