This week marks the six months since my grandfather passed away in January. When my family received the phone call from my Granny it was not completely a surprise, since he had talked about dying for the past year, but it was still a difficult concept to accept, particularly for my Granny.
As a child my grandfather, or as he preferred to be call Ole Les, was my favorite grandparent. He never like the idea of being old, hence why we had to call him "ole." He took me to theme parks, fishing, played with me in his pool pretending to be a shark then whisking me through the water. Ole Les was responsible for giving me the nickname "Pookie." He always knew how to spoil me by offering chocolate candy and taking me on rides in the Toyota MR2, his mid-life crisis car.
He loved his little sports car and he loved the attention given when driving it. I remember so many times pulling up to the drive-thru window to get a milk shake where upon a teenage male employee would be in total awe of Ole Les's sporty car.
However, as he aged his deteriorating body did not agree with him. His mind shouted, "I am young and ready to keep traveling," while his body said, "I am tired and breaking down." Because of this fact Ole Les made it increasingly hard to enjoy his company. He started drinking more encouraging depression pushing his family, his grandchildren who once adored him, farther and farther away. Visits became less frequent perpetuating a vicious cycle of more drinking, more anger, more irritable and less attention. The attention that Ole Les needed most.
My last conversation with Ole Les, where he did most of the talking, was meant to offer advice, but instead offered mistrust and suspicion. This approach automatically deterred me from receiving his words though I know he meant it as sound advice. I acknowledge Ole Les loved me and wanted me to be a person of great success, but because his first advice involved such negativity I considered any of wisdom as null.
Three days later Ole Les died in his sleep in his bed from the effects of pneumonia.
Six months later to the day I took Ole Les's MR2 for a drive. The same car he never allowed me to drive I decided to cruise in with the roof windows removed and my hair slinging in the wind. The same car Ole Les often bragged about driving it up to 130-mph I now drove whipping around back country roads. Even though he had stopped smoking his pipe more than a decade ago due to cancer, I could still smell a hint of the beloved scent I associated with him embedded in his upholstery. As I drove I thought of my cherished memories spending hot summer days watching him make peach ice cream, or family meals during holidays, or celebrating his birthdays, or the late nights when it was just him and me as he described all his great feats starting as a poor Pennsylvania mountain boy.
I used my time accelerating around turns to remember why I love Ole Les rather than remembering why we grew apart. I wish our last conversation had been a better one of love and encouragement, but regrets will get me no where. Besides, I want to remember him as he was. Full of good humor thriving on the knack for making his little "Pookie" laugh.
"Spoiled with the chocolate weapon"
