Forty-Dollar Mule
Father’s Day brings back so many memories, especially of my grandfather. His name was John, but I never heard anyone call him that. Ever. They called him Shiny. Even my grandmother called him Shiny. I have no idea why. I just called him Grandpa. I spent lots of time with him (with both of them) when I was young, and it was clear that he adored me. He spoiled me with things when I was a child (little things flashlights and coin-banks to hold change), and he spoiled me with time and adventure. We would go to the park to feed the ducks or see the animals, we would feed Spaghetti O’s and buttered bread to his dog, Skippy, we’d go to the tracks in West Virginia and bet on the horses (yes, we did that, and yes, I was very much a child—so he would place my bets for me).
Grandpa was a character. He was the epitome of the grumpy old man; and, at ten years my grandmother’s senior, he was an old man. His long red sedan had a back floorboard that was always filled with birdseed and Gains Burgers (not sure if they make those still; Gains Burgers are dog food ‘burgers’ individually wrapped to look like you’re feeding your dog a hamburger pattie). He’d be driving down the street, he’d spot a dog or a group of birds (pigeons), and the next thing you knew he had parked the car and was feeding the critters from the back of his car. It was both wonderful and ridiculous at the same time, but as a child it was nothing but wonderful.
Grandpa would always give me money, and he would always tell me to, “Keep it to yourself, don’t tell Margaret.” Margaret was actually Marguerite (regardless of that, he called her Margaret), and for some reason he never wanted her to know that he slipped me a one-dollar bill (or a five as I got older, or a twenty for gas sometimes when I was in college). He thought it was our little secret, as if we were getting away with something, although she always knew, and she never minded.
I lived about twenty minutes from them when I was in college, and they lived about five minutes from my college. I was a commuter student, and I made sure to commute right past their house at least once a week. I’d pretend to want to stop by for a sandwich, but I really just wanted a few minutes alone with them. How often do you get a chance to spend time with someone who thinks you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread?!? Sometimes I’d call first, to be sure they were home. He’d answer the phone, and we’d have the same conversation every time:
Me: Hi, Grandpa! It’s me! I’m leaving school soon and I thought I’d stop by for a few minutes.
G: Pat! That you, Pat? How you doin’?
Me: I’m fine. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.
G: Well, you look fine! You look like a forty-dollar mule! Come on and fix a sandwich. Margaret walked to the store, she’ll be back when you get here.
Now, if you paid attention to what you just read you’ll notice two things:
1) He called me Pat. No one, NO ONE, has ever dared call me Pat but Grandpa. But he did, up until his last day.
2) He told me that I looked like a forty-dollar mule. Problem one: we were talking on the phone. Problem two: I have no idea what a forty-dollar mule looks like, but since he loved me, and he thought that was hysterically funny, I’ll just go with it.
My Grandpa passed away when I was twenty-five and pregnant with my first child. He never got to meet any of his great-grandchildren. I have no doubt that he would have adored them, that he would have called them by whatever version of their name that HE chose, and that they would have adored that grumpy old man as much as I did.