Vitality Stories

Grandpa Worked With Slugs

It’s all relative

The more personal I get in a Vitality Stories Newsletter, the more responses I receive, and I suppose, the more risk I take that something I’ve shared might be taken out of context and applied relatively, such as the below comment from last week’s letter:

“We lived with our grandpa but he charged us rent for our rooms—one room had no heat, and temperatures often fell below freezing—and we were responsible for buying our food, clothes, and transportation.”

A few readers were not impressed. “Your own grandpa charged you rent?! No heat?!”

Yes, he did charge us rent, and he didn’t pay for our food or transportation, but consider the facts.

I always say, “Just stick to the facts,” and this mantra has served me very well for several years. It rules out hypothetical scenarios and worries. However, the saying “Less is more” sometimes creates an opening for others to project their own state of normalcy or their own way of life onto mine, and this is what happened with the story involving my grandpa.

You see, it’s all relative (no pun intended).

 

Slugs and spuds

When my little brother and I moved in, Grandpa was seventy-five years old. He lived in a trailer on the east side of Carson City and supported himself with Social Security benefits and four large paper routes.

Six days a week, he woke up at 4:00 a.m. to deliver newspapers. He had two large, strong hands and all at once managed to drive, drink coffee, roll a paper, and throw it over the roof of his truck to land on the customer’s walkway. His morning routes took at least three hours. By eight o’clock he’d be back at his trailer, or pulling into The Cracker Box Diner to restock their newspaper vending machine, and have breakfast, his hands stained black with ink. By 10:00 a.m. he was laying on his couch for a two hour nap, and without fail, he’d wake up at noon, have a cup of coffee with lunch and then head out for two afternoon paper routes. He rolled and delivered The Nevada Appeal, The New York Times, The Washington Post, and The Reno Gazette for over a decade.

 

There are two things he did every year. First, he planted a potato patch, and secondly, he set aside enough money for a summer camping trip with a few of his grandchildren where he cooked outdoor meals on a Coleman gas stove and with his mother’s seasoned cast iron skillet which he managed to keep for sixty years until I left it on a KOA picnic bench somewhere in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

While it may seem unconvential to most that a man charged his grandchildren rent, in our case, he welcomed us into his home the best way he could manage. My grandpa was rich in friends, customers, and routine, but what he didn’t have was enough money to finish raising two teenage kids.

 

Grand gripes and priceless memories

Now, I can’t speak for all of my family members, but in the context of my relationship with him, below is a list of my gripes about Grandpa:

• Everytime I saw him, he maddeningly teased, “Someday I’ll tell you a story.” He took the story to his grave.
• Once he had an opinion about someone, he wouldn’t change his mind even if he was wrong. And even then he wouldn’t keep his opinion to himself.
• On birthdays, his grandchildren received a pinch for each year. OUCH!
• He liked to say, “I have to go to the bathroom so bad my teeth are floating.”
• He always said, “It’s none of my business.” Even when it was.
• He felt best if “half starved” which means the only snack he’d offer was a Knuckle Sandwich.
• When my cousin–you know who you are–put firecrackers in my suitcase and burned my new swimsuit somewhere in the Ozarks, my grandpa laughed and said, “Boys will be boys,” and then he thought an icecream cone should make me feel better.
• And worst of all, he didn’t get mad at me when I lost his mother’s cast iron skillet even though later that day I would find him crying as he set up camp.

He was a nightmare.

My grandpa maintained his daily routes and routine until one morning during my first year of college. He pulled up to The Cracker Box Diner, grabbed a slug and a stack of newspapers to restock their machine. According to his favorite “Sweetheart” waitress, he turned to wave hello through the glass door as he always did if he didn’t intend to stay for breakfast, and then he fell to the ground like a sack of his beloved potatoes.

Yes, Grandpa charged us rent, and it was worth every penny.

This past Sunday, CBS’s Sunday Morning aired a story about babyboomer grandparenting. It was fun to look into the lives of a set of grandparents in Manhattan taking an active role in raising their grandchildren for no other reason than they want to help their own kids who are now working parents. I bet someday their grandkids will have priceless ‘Grand gripes’ of their own.

What was your relationship with your grandparents and what role did they play in your life? And if you’re  a grandparent, I’d love to hear more about your experiences.

As always, thanks for being you.

Teri

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