Grandpa Himel, I didn't forget about you!

Readers of my previous post may have been fooled into thinking I spent my entire childhood at my paternal grandparents' house. The truth is I spent a lot of time at my maternal grandparents' as well. But if I spent a lot of time with my Grandma Ruth (Eseltine), I spent just as much time with my Grandpa Himel.

My grandfather grew up poor in Louisiana, having to quit school in 7th grade and work the fishing boats to help support his family. Like my other Grandfather, my Grandpa Himel (pronounced e-mel in Louisiana) served in WWII and, like my other grandfather, was discharged in the Bay Area where he met my grandmother and raised a family. Despite having only a 7th grade education, he achieved a career as a machinist at the Lawrence Livermore Laboratory.

All of that didn't matter much when I was a kid. What did matter was his garage. The garage, which doubled as a workshop, seemed to house every tool imaginable. My brothers and I learned to use a band saw, a table saw, a drill press and even a lathe under his tutelage. But it wasn't the skills we aquired in that garage, it was the fun we had. My grandfather prided himself on the toys he made to give as gifts at the holidays. From the whirlygigs and wooden neck ties to toy trains and customized wall mounts to hang bats and gloves, my grandfather was always in action. And were his workers.

What seems amazing now is the patience he must have had to watch over my brothers and I while we worked the heavy machinery. The thought of band saws and children's fingers could frighten off even the bravest of souls, yet he never faltered. I am proud to say I still possess many of my creations from those afternoons in the shop, as well as all of my fingers.

I mentioned that my grandfather was from Louisiana and during my childhood that really meant only one thing. Gumbo. My grandfather was a pretty good cook and he convinced or tricked me into eating a lot of tradtional cajun fare, from frog's legs to turtle soup, but Gumbo was his speciality. It was my personal, and I imagine other family member's, saving grace during family gatherings and no one has come even close to repeating the recipie since his death.

I was a sophomore in high school when he died following surgery to remove a brain tumor. He had survived colon cancer and a previous brain tumor and maybe that was why everyone seemed so optimistic prior to the surgery. I was not. Brain surgery sounded big and I guess it was. Is it just a coincidence that a guy who worked at a lab that performed cold war nuclear testing contracted cancer three times? Maybe, maybe not, but my mother's family was never quite as close after his death. Being from the South, family was the most important thing in life to my grandfather and with his death, a big part of his family died with him. We have grown back together in the years since, but it will never be quite the same.

My grandfather was my first close family member to die. I'll never forget seeing his lifeless body during the viewing the night before the funeral. It was the most frightening thing I had seen up until then. At that point, death became something real to me rather than just an abstract idea. I guess what really saddens me is that I never got to know him as an adult like I did with my other grandfather. But we did have a lot of fun.

first attempts

It’s funny. I sat down to try and recall my earliest memories. I made a table to organize my thoughts, categorizing each memory into “family” or “school.” But not much came. There was the obvious. Friend’s names, little league teams, pets, but nothing that begged to be put down in writing. Creativity seems to occur when you are not trying. But yet I try.

Memories come to you at inopportune times. The good ones come to me when I am lacking and the bad ones come when I need peace. I don’t understand it, but it usually works this way. Feeling useless and alone, memories of old friends and good times find their way back to me. But trying to sleep or read a book, thoughts of dropped fly balls and bad choices haunt me. And so it happened the other day when I was aimlessly walking through downtown. Feeling a bit lost and bored, some memories came flooding back.

My family lived in small house on Rosal Lane in Concord until I was about five. Both sets of my grandparents lived nearby, my father’s parents living just around the corner. I spent a lot of time there, often sleping over. There was always soda waiting for me, often the remnants of a previous can due to my grandmother’s Depression era childhood. She would give up everything if I came over and if she was busy running errands, I was always invited along. If there was a baseball game on, the best times were spent listening to my grandfather’s rants about how much the Giants sucked. And they did. His use of expletives and derogatory terms was so much more refined than my father’s and I learned a lot from him.

My brother Johnny was born when I was three and Daniel when I was five. I didn’t require a lot of maintenance as a child, and so I would go to my grandparents and let my mom deal with babies. Their house was an easy escape from the noise of my own. My brother Johnny was/is a handful, as was my father and I slept over at my grandparents because I was the center of attention. My grandfather always seemed preoccupied, but he always wanted to know how things were going. There was usually a good meal involved and a late bedtime. Which seems amazing now as both my grandparents were usually up by 6am. I would get up in the morning to a bowl of cereal and my grandmother’s commentary prompted by the radio on how Reagan was ruining the country. My grandfather never looked up from his paper. Later my grandma would read aloud from my aunts’ and uncle’s old copies of Tom Sawyer and Edgar Allan Poe. My fondest memories still remain sitting in that big chair, under a blanket, a grandparent on either side, watching Benny Hill.

These are some of the memories that cause me to pause and smile. I don’t make it over to my grandmother’s as often as I would like, but when I do, it’s often like I am five years old again. My grandmother still drops everything, still takes me on errands, but we have so much more to talk about now.