Catching wasps

My grandfather's hands look like crispy fried chicken -- as if the skin and the muscles have slid over one another so long that they are no longer friendly neighbors, resolved to go their separate ways. The skin is nicely browned and seasoned from years of working in the sun; the nails are thick and yellowed like an elephant's. I remember watching him catch wasps on the back porch with his bare hands, unaware of the invention of pain. He's one of those Grandfathers that grew up on a farm, fought and survived World War II, built his own house and worked and worked and worked. In photographs I see of him when my Dad was small, he looks stern and has deep smile lines but no smile. His eyes have the intensity of one who is perpetually preoccupied.

At 87, he's lived to see many of his family and friends pass into earth. He perhaps expects the same of himself soon, yet daily does physical work that men my age would be unable to perform. He has none of the intensity of his younger years, unless you get him talking about politics or the National Rifle Association (his favorite hat is a navy blue baseball cap with a red stripe along the brim and embroidered white letters that say, 'Smith n' Wesson.' He forgets it sometimes so he's written his name in permanent black marker on the red stripe.) To his grand-daughter that grew up elsewhere, he's a sweet old man who loves his wife and knows a lot about engines and nature.

The other day when my Grandma and I were labelling old photos he came in from working outside with a sprightly gleam in his eye. We had been sorting pictures of their friends from when they were in their 20s -- around 1940? They're the kind of photos where everyone has creamy, perfect skin and wavy hair and are staring off into the distance at something beautiful. One of them was a lady friend of Grandpa's, Grandma was sure. So when he came into the room she asked him who the girl was, saying that she thought they had dated and that her name was Camille. He crouches down in that way he always does when talking to Grandma -- down on one knee like he's going to propose to her all over again -- mumbling gruffly, 'well, let's see...' and picks up the photo. A long silence that's trying hard to jog his memory ends with, 'that pretty girl went out on a date with ME?'

After a while he remembers -- they had gone on a date to an amusement park and rode a rollercoaster together (can you imagine...my Grandpa on a rollercoaster!!?). During the ride she smacked her head on the seat in front of her and had a swollen lip for the rest of the night. "So we couldn't kiss!" he says.

My Grandparents' 60th anniversary is coming up next year. Grandma still calls him 'her boyfriend.'