George

Since I'm trying to use writing as an emotional outlet, I thought this morning, I'd share a story about a man named George. I didn't know this man until he was already quite old. He was born in 1912, and I in 1981, so you see, there was already a big gap in age. By the time I was born, he had already fathered 7 children and grandfathered several grandchildren.
George was a community icon. Not because he drove a flashy car, or had a grand house, or built some corporate empire. Nope. When I was younger, he had a boat of a car, a red Chevy Malibu, actually, a cozy little three bedroom house with a garden, and a monthly pension check from years of working in a foundry to support his family. Yes, when I met him, his face was already wrinkled, but the wrinkles could not disguise the charm in his blue eyes, or the fact that his good looks once made girls swoon. He had a habit of clearing his throat loudly, and adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He walked "up town" (this is back when people still referred to it that way, because this town was hardly the metropolis that most are, these days)every day, he put jam on his bologna sandwiches and butter on his cookies. He didn't watch his weight, and every time I stayed the night at his house, he had a brandy nightcap. He chewed tobacco, and strangely, I cannot recall it ever bothering me. There was a stash of cigars in his top dresser drawer, in one of those old White Owl cigar boxes. I have one of them, that he gave to me to put my "stuff" in, when I was little.
When I was in elementary school, he picked me up every day. He'd march right into the school, with his brown knit gloves and his newsboy cap, all the way to the door of my classroom, and even if it was 15 minutes early, my teachers would nod and say I could go. They all knew him. I spent my summers in the cozy little house, whiling away the hours, twisting around in the maple trees, making up games with the neighbor girls, and sitting out on the picnic table with heaps of cold watermelon to eat. George would come outside and show me how to pick a ripe tomato from the garden, bite it like an apple and then sprinkle it with salt as I ate the rest of it. He liked to rock in the swing in the back yard, and I'd sit by him. We'd beckon the little birds enjoying their bath. They'd always come curiously close, and George would smile and speak "bird" to them. When the ice cream truck would come down the block, George would walk to the curb in his polyester pants and black "clodhoppers," even though the summer heat was brutal, to open his wallet and purchase ice cream sandwiches for all of the kids who had also congregated there, knowing George's track record for generosity. In fact, any time he even spoke to a child, he'd be reaching for his change purse, asking "ya gotta pocket?"...which inevitably meant he'd pull out a quarter and conclude "go buy yourself a bar 'a candy." I almost wish I'd saved all those years of quarters. Perhaps I wouldn't have as many student loans today.
You see, George was just that kinda guy. He wasn't boastful or proud, but just good down to his soul. And his soul is exactly what I am rejoicing for, today, because I know that my Father opened his arms and welcomed him last night, as he passed from this life at the ripe old age of 98. I also know that my beloved grandma has been waiting for him, too. Because if you haven't caught on, George is my grandpa...and he's missed her since she left this earth in 2004. He has been like a lost sheep, with a lot of substitute shepherds trying to herd him around, but no one who could take care of him like she did. So in essence, it's a life story of love, of humility...of humanity. I know there are a lot of good people in the world, or at least I hope there are. It's just that we're down one today, and as much as my heart is happy for his new, eternal life, I can't help the selfish sadness I feel because I know I'll never get to look at those smiling blue eyes, or shake his soft, wrinkled hand again.