Staying out of trouble

“Will someone come in here, please?”

When I heard my grandmother’s voice carrying out the open window to the rest of us in the yard below, I knew it was bad. She barely raised her voice, but my immediate thought was,

Something’s wrong.

Grandpa’s not okay.

I’ve received a handful of calls over the years about my Grandpa Terry.

There was the call from my mom, when she informed me that grandpa had been hospitalized for an accident with his lawn mower, which had taken a few of his fingers. She told me, “He’s doing well… Well, besides the fingers…”

Or years later when he lost his driving privileges after totaling two of his cars in the span of a few months, even then, I was never particularly worried about my Grandpa. He’s always been the kind of guy you call when you’re in trouble, so I didn’t spend much time losing sleep over what my mother’s father might get up to. In fact his favorite greeting was,

“Hey kiddo. You staying out of trouble?”

To which I’d reply, “well, I’m trying,” projecting as much devil-may-care as I could muster.

He’d chuckle, no doubt seeing straight through my attempted impishness to the strait-laced boy underneath, but the answer satisfied him.

____

I had the good fortune of growing up just a few miles up the road, so there are many stories I could tell you about my Grandpa Terry. I could talk about how, he and Nannie were our first babysitters, and many summer nights Grandpa would tuck us in with stories I’m sure he used to read my mom and uncle (Chicken Little was our favorite). In the morning we’d eat eggs cooked over-medium under Grandpa’s watchful eye, and corned beef hash, and if we were lucky, a bowl or two of Coco-Crispies from his secret stash. There were always homemade cookies if you knew where to look for them (next to the toaster) or at the very least Oreos, ‘cause Nannie and Grandpa knew from experience, the best way to handle 3 or 4 hungry siblings, is sugar, and bribery.

The young sugar-hungry brothers (1994)

As we grew up, we didn’t sleep over any more, because we didn’t need anyone to blow dry our hair or tuck us in when Mom and Dad had a date night, but we’d still come over. Grandpa’s workshop was an intrigue full of endless curiosities: model airplanes in various stages of completion and some manner of sports car he was rebuilding, and racy posters of women modeling for Holley Carburetors that he would probably call “memorabilia” and Nannie would probably call “evidence.” When we outgrew playing with tools, Eddie, Quinn and I graduated to using them to change our car’s belts and oil filters in Grandpa’s workshop. He either had the tool or material we needed, or he’d figure out how to make it work.

There are many stories Grandpa told me of his childhood growing up in Kansas during the infamous Dust Bowl of the 1930’s: eating onion sandwiches for lunch when his family didn’t have extra money for ham, and walking home with one foot trailing the edge of the road, to keep track of the way home after a bad dust storm.

There are stories he’d probably want to be told, like when he played football in high school and was rushing to catch a pass and ran full-sprint into the field post, knocking himself clean out.

Or when I turned 21 and was looking through his copy of Old Mr. Boston De Luxe Official Bartender’s Guide for how to mix cocktails, and Grandpa pulled a piece of notebook paper from his pad, and jotted down from memory his recipe for “purple passion” which included 1/2 pint of Dry Gin, Vodka, frozen grape juice, 10 crushed up aspirin, and a note reading “Be very careful”

old_mr_boston (*actual recipe. Please do not try at home)

“Grandpa, are you kidding me? Crushed up Aspirin? That’s dangerous!”

He replied with a big signature Terry grin.

“What? You don’t want to get a hangover, do you?”

How about the time he decided to get in touch with his Scottish heritage, (of which his actual confirmed percentage was likely zero) and took to wearing a kilt around the house–until Nannie informed him it would be the end of their marriage if he kept wearing a dress about.

Or perhaps the famous story of his reckless youth immortalized in his cousin James Dickenson’s book Home on the Range, where the author was called upon to ride shotgun in his cousin Terry’s 1950 Oldsmobile 88 two-door Rocket Sedan when Terry was challenging an out-of-towner who’s car was supposedly faster than his. James was not there for emotional support, he was there for physical support: to apply his weight onto Terry’s right leg and keep it from shaking at high speeds, keep it pinned to the accelerator.

This was a crucial job, since Terry’s leg had a case of Osteomyelitis, a bone infection that not only kept him on bed rest for 6 months when he was 12, but also kept him from passing the physical test that would have admitted him to the military. Due to the amount of model airplanes, flight simulators, and Tom Clancy novels he accumulated, I think the only method Grandpa would have voluntarily chosen as a way to die, would be in a flaming aerial collision, or maybe high-speed automobile accident, although we took his keys away before he was able to successfully complete that mission.

I still remember sitting next to Grandpa in the beach house hot tub, examining those scars on his leg. The disease that afflicted him when he was a boy left deep impressions on the side of his knee, whether from a screw being drilled in or bone being bored out, I never asked, but it left a hole as wide as your thumb on the side of his knee, deep enough to stick your finger in, like a second navel.

But you’ve probably heard those stories by now. The story I want to tell you, is what I have learned from my Grandpa Terry. You see, Terry wasn’t an overly-emotional guy. He didn’t talk about his feelings, or ask about yours. What he did ask about, was how your job was going, how that project was coming along, if you had any cute girls in your life.

He didn’t waste time with small talk, but showed himself to the kitchen and started helping out: prepping the gravy on Thanksgiving, making a chocolate cake, or maybe pulling out his Leatherman to fix that thing that you didn’t know was broken.

No matter the situation, he was already rolling up his sleeves to help. When I told him I wanted to cut something from aluminum, or try welding for the first time, or change my headlights, he’d say, “Come on over” and he’d have the materials already set out and waiting to be assembled on the shop table.

The way Grandpa loved us, was by inviting us into his life, and showing up to ours. And that’s the Terence Dickenson I will remember- seeing past the bold stories and battle scars, and to the heart of the man who taught me how to drive stick in his V8 MG convertible, who never failed to bring a homemade cake to my birthday, if I asked, and who loved through actions much, much louder than his words. If I can take up any trait from my grandpa, I hope it is this one: to waste no time showing the people who matter most to me how much I care, through action and deed. Words are nice too, but you don’t always need words to say “I love you.”

I imagine anyone who has lost someone dear can understand, my world feels a lot smaller without my Grandpa Terry. But maybe if we can each remember to take a page from Terry’s book, and do that a little bit each day, then maybe I won’t feel that way anymore.

_____

When I got upstairs and entered the kitchen, I saw my mom and Nannie standing beside Grandpa, seated, his head nodding onto his chest. He had taken a seat after our post-brunch walk, saying “Wow that really took it out of me.” A minute or two later he slipped out of consciousness, his breathing heavy and ragged.

Growing up, I remember Grandpa falling asleep pretty quickly. Kicked back in his armchair, he’d doze off while the rest of us watched a movie, his thunderous snores filling the house. But when I saw him in that chair, slumped forward, his body posture didn’t say sleeping. He wasn’t waking up.

We called 911 and started chest compressions, my brother and I trading off, forcing blood to pump in the chest of the man who had always been there, and all of a sudden, wasn’t.

The ambulance arrived and EMT’s took over, but there was nothing more that could be done. Grandpa was gone, he’d left, and he wasn’t coming back.

___

As we get older, our tastes mature, and when birthdays come around, we no longer desire toys or trinkets, instead we seek experiences, meals with loved ones, shared memories. saying goodbye to my Grandpa on my birthday, wasn’t a gift I would have asked for, but it was a gift I’m glad I was able to receive.

A good friend told me that we continue to learn from our grandparents even in their death, after they’re gone. I’m still learning from my Grandpa Terry. I hope I never stop.

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