As a child I looked at my grandfather in awe. He was a giant of a man in my young eyes. He was always impeccably dressed even when he was performing hard labor on his farm. His trousers were always neatly creased, his shoes meticulously polished, his ironed shirt tucked neatly inside his pants, his suspenders perfectly placed on his chest. His hands were beautiful, strong. His face was handsome even in old age. He never ventured outside in the sun without his fedora. To me he was figure who was larger than life, a man educated through curiosity and experience.

As an adult I found wisdom and succor from him and it was my good fortune to be able to visit with him anytime I wished. I did not need to call for an appointment. His door was always open, his welcome always warm. Often when the anxieties of simply existing began to overwhelm me I would suggest to my husband, Mike, that we go visit Grandpa who was living in a rented room on the northside of Houston. 

Grandpa’s landlady was a widow who was young enough to be his daughter, and who in fact became much like a beloved family member to him. In the beginning he paid her rent for the room which helped her to meet her financial responsibilities. Over time they simply began to pool their resources to keep the place in good repair and to maintain a comfortable way of life. 

The house where he was staying was tiny, probably little more than a thousand square feet. It featured two bedrooms set between a small bathroom. Grandpa had his own space while the owner of the house shared her room with her sister. They were a congenial trio with each person pulling his or her weight with cooking and cleaning. In spite of the tight quarters they got along rather well. I suppose that none of them would have made it alone, but together they were safe and secure. 

Grandpa held court in a recliner in the corner of the living room that he had helped to panel so that there would be no further need to paint the walls. Due to his age he was only able to work on the bottom half under a ledge of trim. the upper section of the panelling was completed by the landlady’s son. I often noted that the bottom half was perfection while the top looked as though it had been installed by a child. it spoke of Grandpa’s craftsmanship that resulted from a lifetime of working on construction projects. 

Grandpa was proud of his contributions to some master works like the San Jacinto Monument in Texas and the capitol buildings of several states. He had built a home in the Houston Heights that still stands as evidence of his impeccable work. He had created special features in the kitchens where my grandmother created her mouthwatering recipes. I supposed that the mark of his craft was present in buildings all over the United States. 

Grandpa was always exited to see us. He’d settle into his recliner, prepare his pipe and then launch into tales of his life. He was a natural born storyteller who had lived through the modernization of the world. He had seen the birth of electricity, human flight into the air and then into space. He loved to speak of his childhood and then boast of the modern conveniences that made the later part of his life so much easier. He viewed innovation as proof of the genius of humans. He thought of himself as a lucky man for having witnessed the march of progress that only seemed to accelerate over time. He was an advocate of embracing change and looking forward rather than longing for the past. 

Some how his perspective always set me right. I was much like my grandmother, his beloved wife, who was a chronic worrier. Grandpa saw that in me and advised me to be less anxious and more focused on enjoying life no matter the challenges that it brought to me. He understood quite well the seasons through which we pass and he found beauty in each of them. For him the “good old days” were to be found in each present moment. He reveled in the wonders that made his life so much easier than those that his ancestors had endured.

From Grandpa I learned about preserving food in a time before refrigeration. I heard about the devastation of smallpox outbreaks and times when children only went to school for a few years to get the basics of reading and writing. He told me of his experiences in Oklahoma before that place was a state. He spoke of the mistreatment of the Osage Indian tribe by greedy white men who coveted the resources of their land. I learned about another depression that occurred during his boyhood and how Coxey’s Army came through his town. He was a folk history professor extraordinaire who enlightened me time and again. 

Grandpa was also a voracious reader who loved to talk about the latest book that he was reading. He tended to enjoy history more than other topics but he was open to new ideas from any topic. Best of all was his contentment and ability to make the best of whatever life threw his way. He never really stopped missing my grandmother but he had endured so much loss in his life that he had accepted its inevitability. That was apparent in the unfolding of his belief that there is indeed a time or a season for everything. 

Grandpa gave away his car when he turned ninety years old exclaiming that he was not as alert or able to react as well as he once was. He saw old people as hazards on the road. He did not want to take the risk of hurting someone simply because he was too proud to admit that his time had come to surrender to his age. He was wise beyond anyone else that I have ever known.

Those visits to see my grandfather were a lifeline for me. He represented a connection to my father and to my grandmother. He was my past, my present and my future all wrapped up in one person. He was my guru, my peacemaker, my guide. With his long life he was a force on whom I thought would always be able to depend. For the time being he would always be there for me.