The last time I was home, he gently slipped, "I don't think you want to go to Haiti, I think you'll miss home too much" into our conversation. I reminded him that South Texas is almost as far away from home as Haiti and flights are just as expensive. But, even as I compared my current geographical proximity to home and my future proximity, I knew my grandpa intertwined his comment into our conversation thread because he wants to keep me close.
We frequented my grandparent's house growing up. One time, after a dinner which I'm positive included bread with butter and sugar and sliced tomatoes, I started throwing a temper tantrum because I SWORE that my sister didn't have to wait as long for her birthday as I did for mine. I have no idea how I built my argument, but I was positive that July came around twice as much as December did. The innocent snickers of my parents and grandma and the adamant denial of my sister acted only as a catalyst for my stubbornness. At the height of my stomping and screaming, my grandpa patiently pulled me next to him on our favorite worn couch. He had written all the months on a piece of paper. He took my finger and counted with me, July to July is 12 months, 1 year. December to December is 12 months, 1 year. As my argument proceeded, just slightly quieter, he softly grabbed my finger and counted with me again. And again. And again. He counted with me until I internalized that my sister, born in July, has to wait the exact same amount of time for her birthday that I have to wait for my birthday. Because he was close, because he was patient, I conceded my point (thankfully, in time for my grandma's infamous jell-o and whipped cream dessert).
Until a couple years ago, my grandpa owned a restaurant. I worked for him on and off from the time I was 14 to 21. In the beginning, I clung to him, even though I knew he was busy. I would pretend that I was still his bubbly three year old granddaughter, running back to his office almost immediately after I entered the family style sit-down. As soon as he saw me, he'd look up for his work, and greet me, using my childhood nickname, "Hi, Scooter!" My last summer working for him, when I was 21, I no longer clung to my grandpa's physical presence, but rather sought to cling to his unmatched ability to connect with people, to keep them close. As soon as I would mention to my customers that I was "Larry's granddaughter," I would be served stories of "This one time, your grandpa did this for us.." or "Your grandpa is a good man.." or "You're a really lucky young woman...." Hearing these stories was humbling because I was afforded the reality, my grandpa didn't own a restaurant solely to earn an income or to smell like food every day of his life or to work 10 or 11 hour days 7 days a week. Rather, he owned a restaurant to keep people close. Close to each other, close to him, close to the community.
It would take the entire community of Mitchell, a majority of the state of South Dakota, and various pockets of the country to do my grandfather justice. Like my dad, he isn't a man of many words, but every word that slips his tongue is one of deep meaning, profound impact, close keeping.
My grampy taught me that to love people is to keep them close and deeply connected.
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