My paternal grandfather died when I was 12. I remember the day because my sister and I were playing Barbies in the basement, and my mom called us upstairs and ominously told us she had something to tell us about grandpa. She sat us each on a knee and told us he died in the nursing home and gave us a hug, waiting for the tears to start. Sis and I said, “Okay,” hopped off and went back to playing. We did not like our grandfather. One of 10 children of German immigrants, he was a hard man who lived a hard life. He nicknamed me “Tightwad” when I was a toddler for no reason anyone knows. He only referred to me as Tightwad, while my cousins got nicknames of Sawdust and Sunshine. My sister he gave no nickname at all, and the only time he referred to her as any name was as “that little liar and thief” once when she was two and playfully hid his keys. He had a 6^th grade education and worked for bootleggers during Prohibition, later becoming a carpenter and running a successful business with his brother. He always smelled of liquor and pipe smoke, and he had disgusting table manners and perpetually dirty fingernails. He once literally chased a black friend of my mother’s out of our home shouting that he wouldn’t allow “no niggers” on his property (despite the fact it was my parents’ property). My last memories of him were in the nursing home, where my sister and I were forced to sit through interminable visits where he cursed the nurses then screamed for someone to bring him a Highball and his pipe. I could find some good qualities to write about, like when he let us watch John Wayne movies with him, but as far as grandfathers went, he kind of sucked. The nicest thing I ever remember about him was giving me a small jar of pennies each year for Christmas. My father didn’t even cry at his funeral.

My maternal grandfather died when I was 14, and I still miss him. I’m surprised when I get a stinging pang of longing for him seemingly out of nowhere, even after almost 20 years. I have his obituary still and I occasionally get it out and run my fingers over his face, my heart painfully clinching a bit. My reaction to his passing terrifies me when I think of the grieving process I will face with my own parents’ deaths. Grandpa was an obscenely handsome man with a full head of glossy black hair into his 60s and twinkling blue eyes that never required glasses of any kind his whole life. He was a pilot in WWII, but probably should have been a movie star – the ladies pursued him up until the day he died. He had a genius IQ, but worked at an extremely low paid engineering job his entire life. He could answer the most complex math and physics equations, but had no idea how – he just knew by looking at them. He read me Bible stories at bed time and always wore a pocket protector in which he kept a pen, a drafting pencil, and a constant supply of Certs mints to feed me and my cousin during church. We misbehaved terribly in church, and he’d just wink at us and give us more candy, which drove my mom nuts because he was so hard on her growing up, especially in church. He was a deacon and everyone loved him (especially those ladies!). I don’t remember him ever saying one unkind word about anyone, or ever blaming anyone for his lot in life, or thinking he should have more than what he did. Hugs and kisses were freely given and eagerly taken, and he put no time limit on playing ball with us outside, happy to whittle away the day with his grandkids. My best memory of him was when I was about 11 or 12 and he called me “Sis.” He always affectionately called my mom “Sis,” and I thought it was such a grown-up nickname, secretly longing to hear the same. I was so thrilled when he called me Sis that day, feeling like he recognized me as grown-up girl finally. He hated the doctor and was never sick, and ended up dying suddenly after a long cold that wouldn’t go away. It was leukemia. My father did cry at his funeral. I remember nothing of my paternal grandfather’s funeral, but I can almost recount the exact minutes of my maternal grandfather’s. I even remember what I wore – a Christmas sweater with a sled on it, and a black skirt with flats.

My own dad makes a complicated grandfather. DD loves him with abandon, which I have been unable to figure out, probably because I’m usually too mad at him to think rationally about her relationship with him. He loves her, but tends to be oblivious of her presence usually. She follows him around happily trying to get his attention, “Grandpa! Grandpa!” and he seems surprised to find her there, sometimes visibly annoyed by the fact that she is there. While DD is playing by herself, perhaps singing or making her dollies talk, my dad hushes her when he’s watching tv (as if she makes that much noise), and he gets angry when she cries or throws a normal toddler fit. I have come perilously close to saying, “She’s three; what’s your excuse?” as he is the champion tantrum thrower of all time. He’s a skilled carpenter and built her a beautiful shelf system in the shape of a house, complete with doors and windows. He once built her a tiny wooden boat that floats in the bath. Those are the only two gifts of any kind he’s personally given her. He makes it a personal mission to visit us as little as possible, and in the almost 4 years since her birth, he’s only been to visit 3 times I think (give or take maybe one visit – they’ve been so few I didn’t even keep count). He makes such a stink out it, too, that you’d think visiting his daughter and granddaughter was the most unpalatable thing he could think of to do. DD, however, seems nonplussed by it all, choosing to color scads of pictures to mail to him and gluing herself to his side whenever she sees him, regardless of if he’s showing irritation with her.

FIL is on par to enter into the grandfather Hall of Fame. Despite his early ineptness during the baby and toddler years, and his propensity for letting DD walk all over him like a doormat, he loves her in an amazing way that I think even surprised Saresh. I’ve never once seen him annoyed with DD, and she has engaged in some supremely annoying behavior towards him. He will play with her non-stop for as long as she likes in any activity she likes. He lives to see her smile. Knowing nothing of kid toys or tv shows, he took a special interest in finding out what she likes, surprising her with a stuffed Big Bird or books. He routinely picks up something small just for her – perhaps a little stuffed animal, or a cookie, or whatever catches his eye. He calls the house just to see what she’s doing right then and make sure she’s okay, or to tell us not to leave the house if it’s raining because he doesn’t want us getting in an accident with her in the car. FIL lives for the day when DD will attend the kindergarten right across the street from his subdivision, already making plans to pick her up from school each day. He worries that we’ll move out of the district before then. He seems to find everything she does or says to be extremely fascinating or special, and she can’t move a muscle without him taking a picture. He’s like a first time parent who wonders at every little thing their child does – everything seeming so miraculous.

As DD grows into an adult, I know she’ll look back and realize what a gift she was given. Every kid should be so lucky as to have a grandparent that thinks you’re the most special thing in the whole world.