What They Would Say
My Grampa Freddy, who was actually named Francis but inexplicably went by what seemed to be any name but his own, was born in 1918, and by the time I knew him he seemed to be nothing short of a wise owl full of life experiences.
He didn’t talk much, but his presence was always enough. In fact, my most impactful memory with him is eating puffy Cheetos together on a park picnic table. I was probably about five and sat next to him in my overalls and pink sunglasses taking him in as an 82-year-old man in a leather jacket that smelled of tobacco, although he never smoked, and Barbosal, a flat cap and thick glasses. I have never reached that level of content with anyone else’s presence. Since my time spent with him only lasted ten years, most of his life lessons came from what he left behind.
He was a man that was born into uncertainty, lived through the uncertainty of the depression in a town where certainty existed only in coal mines. He left Pennsylvania to pursue music to then meet and leave his young soon-to-be wife for war. A war where he faced uncertainty from the sky, was shot down into an uncertain country, and returned home to navigate his future which held ten children.
As I was faced with so many points of uncertainty lately I thought of my Grampa, and his generation. I thought of each of my grandparents and what they would say if I talked to them today.
I thought of my Gramma Alice helping her mother in the kitchen in the 1930’s when her father’s paycheck was uncertain for years, and 30 years later when she had ten hungry children sitting at her dining table needing her in every second. What would she have said if she were to see empty shelves?
Well, she would have probably first said something along the lines of how important it is to remember to share. Then she would have found whatever was left and immediately thought about how she could make it stretch to feed as many people as possible.
I thought of her when I looked over the lonely shelves and found cans of food I remember her using to stretch meals. A can of crushed tomatoes, a box of off-brand spaghetti, those items could be added to a pot with a little garlic and some basil and make a decent meal to feed a family of four for at least one meal, if not two. I picked up a sack of potatoes remembering how often she served them, how long they always kept in her pantry. She had taught my cousins and I, much like many of our Grandmother’s, that to go without is an honorable thing. Luxury feels more luxurious when it is actually treated as such. Then I bought some vitamin C — which she never skimped on, not ever.
When I felt couped up inside, I thought of my Grampa Freddy. What would he have said toward my boredom? What would he have done?
He would have walked. He would have taken this as an opportunity to experience the world around him in a new way, much like he did in whatever country he found himself in away from his family in a time when there wasn’t a clear light at the end of the tunnel. When he was shot down in Poland in 1944 he spent New Year’s Eve having a shave and watching the locals celebrate. When he left my Gramma at home he wrote her, never letting a worry that he wouldn’t see her again escape from his pen. He believed so strongly in the possibility of what life can hold, the goodness life can hold, that is why I think he brought peace to everyone who sat with him, they felt the good vibrate from his presence.
So, I went for a walk, and then another one, and another one. I said hello to the birds and the squirrels and I thought of the sun not just as a light source but one that gave me life. I said hello to the people I passed, while still giving us six feet of space, and smiled as I heard siblings still fight over tricycles, and basketballs still swoosh through driveway hoops.
I thought of my Grandpa Jack when I got scared. My Grandpa Jack was a brave man who came from a long line of bravery, especially in days where the ground didn’t seem so sturdy. His father fled from Ireland, and my Grandpa’s mother took a train alone to her hometown far from Chicago while she was in labor with him. He boarded a naval ship in San Francisco while the world was preparing for the worst and didn’t look back. My Grandpa Jack never seemed to be scared. Not when he had two kids in a one bedroom basement apartment, not when he used all his savings for a small house out in a new development away from his family, not when he had four kids underfoot, and not when his cancer spread.
Instead, when he was so very sick, he found joy in whatever he could. Toward the end of his time, he pulled my sister and I aside and looked as if he was prepared to say something deep, only to ask us, “Do you girls like bacon bits?” He then gave us his secret recipe of scrambling bacon bits into eggs. He did just that every day, scrambled joy in the form of bacon bits into his eggs, until he couldn’t anymore. He took any fear he had and powered it into positivity.
So, when I got scared I thought, what would he have said toward my fear?
He would have drunken his orange juice, which he did every day for 90 years, and found something to laugh about instead. So, I drank my orange juice and wrote.
I have one remaining grandparent. My Grandma Joan, who I fiercely protect and love with all of my heart and soul, and I called her to ask her about these uncertain times. Which, by the way, call your grandparents if you still can, now and always.
My Grandma Joan raised four kids under five when she was still in her early twenties, lived on the west side of Chicago with boarders during the great depression, lied about her age to get a job, survived by going without on multiple occasions, and trained as a nurse in her teens. She was surrounded by uncertainty at so many turns in her life. Instead of having to guess what my Grandma would say to these uncertain times, I asked her what she thought of the on-goings in the world and she surprised me with her response.
To her the light at the end of the tunnel is clear, and it is beautiful. She believes there will be change in the best of ways. People will take this time to find better ways to take care of themselves, and remember to take care of others. They will change the way they feel about the simplest things. I told her I was thankful to hear that she believes things will get better, she replied with a firm, “Yup!” There is so much certainty to her answer of what will be, and gratitude toward the forthcoming respect communities will have for each other.
Her response reminds me of the concerts held at the edges of balconies, the kind restraint I saw of (some) people placing only one bunch of toilet paper in their cart when they could put six, the people retrieving groceries for those who can’t, the dogs still being walked, the donations being made to those who can’t work, the books being read aloud on FaceTime, the texts going back and forth checking in on each other.
Grandma Joan reminded me that unity is what got her generation, my grandparents’ generation, through all the uncertainty they faced. Their uncertainties lasted for years and years, and strengthened their bonds of human brotherhood.
Her final message, which she said unprompted, “It’ll all be okay. Everything will be okay.” I’d listen to Grandma Joan if I were you.
