(no subject)
The story about my grandfather is that...well, there wasn't a story, not so much. The stories were always about my grandmother, who had the drive and the initiative and had she been born sixty years later, would probably have gone into politics and done extremely well for herself, or possibly ended up on the Supreme Court or something. Or maybe the Food Network.
My grandfather, though - he was the opposite. When Grandma talked, Grandpa listened. When Grandma forged ahead, Grandpa quietly brought up the rear, ensuring that everything stayed on track. When my grandmother gave a speech at their 50th wedding anniversary, my grandfather stood up, pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, dramatically opened it, scanned it, put it back in his pocket, and sat back down - all without saying a word.
Needless to say, it's the only thing anyone remembers from that party.
Which isn't to say my grandfather didn't teach me anything.
He taught me the art of war. During one summer-time visit, and using an oversized chess set he'd procured somewhere along the way (likely at an estate sale, knowing my grandfather), he sat me at one end of the board and my brother at the other, and taught us how to play. See, he didn't do it by playing us one at a time - oh, no. He did it by pitting my brother and I against each other, switching his allegiance back and forth based on whose turn it was to play.
He taught me the joy of financial gain. Every Saturday, he would dress in his Regulation Estate Saleing Uniform: a pair of jeans worn through at seams and knees and hem. A shirt so threadbare you could see straight through it. A pair of loafers with no laces. In cold weather, a knit cap pulled down over his ears. With his more-salt-than-pepper moustache and a hang-dog expression, he looked exactly the way a clever estate saler wants to look: seriously pitiful. In this costume, Grandpa would find an object and try to pay with coins dug from his pocket. Usually the seller would take pity and say, "Oh, that's all right. You can have it."
Grandpa would then turn around and sell the object for $15 in a consignment shop.
He taught me the value of being kind. I was a wise old college student, experienced in the ebb and flow of the world, and having spent a year in the Big City, I'd learned how to ignore people I didn't want to see. When I walked by the homeless man who asked for change so he could get something to eat, my grandfather pulled out his wallet and handed the money to him.
My grandfather was born in a small town in South Carolina, in the same year that Mark Twain, O. Henry, and Leo Tolstoy died. How odd that he was known for never saying a word.
My grandfather was four years old when World War One began, and seven when the United States entered it. How fitting that I never in my life saw him raise his voice in anger.
My grandfather was a student at The Citadel when the stock market crashed, and with it the family's finances. He left the school and went to Washington D.C. to look for work. At the time of his death, he was the second oldest living Citadel alumni. He didn't finish college, but he owned more books in more languages than most people I know.
My grandfather taught me that some things change over time, but the important things don't. He taught me about giving back to your community, and how to wrap a tomato vine on a stand, and how to find what you didn't know you needed in someone's else's discards.
My grandfather taught me to like fried okra, which really, is all you need to know.
On Paul's 100th birthday
