Max's Grand-daughter

I haven’t been Max’s grand-daughter for nearly twenty years, but today I was. I stood as my grandpa’s pride and joy again. My heart went back in time to Dairy Queen on Wednesday night-every Wednesday night-where my grandpa and I indulged our sweet senses in ice cream. My grandma attended “Pig Club” which was actually called TOPS-take off pounds sensibly- while we savored the calorie laden ice cream with piggish tactlessness. I was allowed to order any treat I fancied when I was with my grandpa, but he never ordered anything elaborate. He returned to the Willy’s Jeep, where we sat and watched the traffic on North Avenue in the parking lot of DQ, with a plain vanilla cone each time. He let me lick the curl from the top causing me to squeal and giggle with pleasure. Happiness brimmed in his pale blue eyes, slightly clouded with age, but shining with love. When Charlie, a man who drove a truck for my grandpa in his younger days for extra income, but had become a admired artist and respected art professor, remembered me as Max’s grand-daughter. I was the little girl with messy brown curls dressed in miniature blue and white stripped coveralls imitating my grandpa’s big ones that scooted around the garage on the creeper and dusted floor sweep in oil spills to “help” out. My grandpa kindly and proudly introduced me to everyone who ventured into his greasy shop as his little helper. Sometimes, I got to ride in a semi to test drive the truck my grandpa had recently repaired. I loved to pull the chain of the air horn blowing a low bellowing hhhhhooooooooooootttttt that would bring the elderly neighbor man straight up out of his chaise lounge spitting a string of swear words and waving his fist. Of course, I delightfully giggled and grandpa scolded me, but I could tell he really didn’t mean it. Charlie called my grandpa difficult and stubborn. I couldn’t argue. He was all that and more. My grandma reminded him of it every day and my eager ears heard it all. My grandparents were not soul mates madly in love with each other, but their marriage lasted on its own merit just a few months shy of fifty years. My grandpa and I shared a bond that the rest of the family seemed a bit envious of and never fathomed the depth. We sat in silence on the porch, drove around town in his pick-up, went camping, and dined at local steakhouses weekly together. He called me “Stinker” no matter who else was around and I didn’t mind. We connected. I was his girl and he was the invincible hero that every child needs. His hands were firm, but held mine tenderly. I learned on a hot July morning that my grandpa had a physically vulnerable side and he could be defeated. A heart attack took the strongest man I had ever known. He didn’t put up a fight. He surrendered to death quickly and peacefully. He recognized that it was a battle he wouldn’t win. I may no longer have my grandpa to pamper me with weekly ice cream shop visits or enrich my realm of knowledge with automotive overhaul advice, but I abide in my grandpa’s honor. I was his side-kick and he appreciated me. I valued every word my grandpa spoke and walked closely behind placing my feet in his boot prints. He knew I believed in him. I could see it in his smile. My grandpa was not a gentle man, he demanded obedience and respect, but he understood me like no one else ever did or ever will; maybe because I am just as obstinate as he was or because I truly am “Max’s grand-daughter.”