Quoin

I never knew my maternal grandfather; neither did my mother for that matter.  He passed away when she was four years old.  The grandfather I remember was a big, booming Irishman my grandmother married when I was a baby.  With a shock of hair that never quite made it from blond to completely grey, he always referred to my sisters and me as “Dolly”, this term of endearment somehow escaping his mouth through a wide grin in a kind of sing-song lilt that made you feel special. He wasn’t afraid to tell us we were beautiful.

This was back in the day when grandparents made official visits to your home.  As kids, we always eagerly anticipated the Sundays Grandma and Grandpa would drive in from the city; Grandma in her rose-colored sunglasses and the wig of the moment; Grandpa bearing gifts in the form of a Maurice Lenell cookie assortment (my favorite to this day are the pinwheels) or the giant stuffed Hubert the lion doll from Harris Bank that the five of us kids were expected to share. 

My paternal grandfather was much more low-key, with a subtle sense of humor that manifested itself in swiping food from your plate when you weren’t looking or magically finding a nickel behind your ear.  Time with this set of grandparents always meant something creative was brewing; Grandpa was an extremely talented woodworker, his pieces often serving as canvas or a showcase for the gifted artist who was my grandmother.

I always knew I was fortunate to make it to the ripe old age of 22 with all four of my grandparents living.  A generation later, my children experience this relationship quite differently.  Their paternal grandparents left this world before the boys were even a twinkle in anyone’s eye.  When my mother died four year-old Nate was still fresh enough to planet Earth to stop me in my tracks saying, “Mom, I can’t wait to get to heaven to see God again.”  I’ve always felt that my mother could never truly be the grandmother she dreamed of being, decathect with the burden of a relentless illness from almost the moment Nick started his life in my womb; an illness she knew had the power to rob her of precious time with the grandchildren she so eagerly anticipated.

My dad has carried the grandparenting torch for my children.  They couldn’t be in better hands.  Their relationship is not built on the regular Sunday afternoon visits I enjoyed, but an entirely different connection fueled by our annual trips to his home in California.  My boys are spoiled in that they get their grandfather to themselves for an entire week.  And the bond that is cemented in the desert has led to comfortable familiarity and reverence that continues here in the Midwest when Grandpa is “home” for the summer.

My boys have a healthy respect for his authority, an appreciation for his quiet sense of humor, and an affinity to his creativity.  They find themselves at home in his basement workshop, its own kind of art supply store bursting with the tools of his trade:  Hammers, nails, sanders, spray paint, salvaged gears, machines and motors, scrap wood, metal and plastic.  Like steel tugged to a magnet, even my teenagers so thoroughly into their friends and themselves cannot help but be drawn to this haven of inventiveness and innovation.  With Grandpa they put their 21^st century lives on hold and revert to the simple joy that comes from playing a board game together or making something with their hands.  It makes my heart swell to see these kindred spirits together.  

I often wonder which of Grandpa’s qualities will resonate with my boys as they mature into men, which experiences and memories will shape them. It takes time for the full power of our influences to come to light.  I owe who I am in the business world to my dad.  He never operated in the arena I’m in today, but he passed on all the skills I’ll ever need to succeed:  A calm presence, a creative mind, resourcefulness in the face of constraints, a strong work ethic, an empathetic soul.

I’m confident these seeds are safely planted in my boys. Some are even beginning to blossom.  I’m so glad my dad’s here to water them and watch them grow.     

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.  With love from Shea