Grand Dad R

The oldest, the most handsome, the smart one and the first that left us. He was my father’s dad. He had many, many grandchildren and, I was just one of them. The one born after four, five or six -who would be still counting. And another girl. Probably, if I would have been a boy, he would have given me some more attention.  My older brother was the only male in that batch of kids- being 11 months my older. My cousin Peter, was the second, being 13 months my younger. This left me stuck in the middle of a litter of kids, not been quite remarkable to his eyes.

But, there is always a but, genetics worked on my side, and out of all those children, the one that actually resembled more to him -and his wife- was me.

From his side, I got the eyes shape and beautifully, carefully shaped eyebrows. His expression too, specially, when we show a fierce gaze. From his wife, I got the little nose, the big mouth, and a wide generous smile, showing fantastic teeth. I was almost identical to my dad, his first born. And even if I was a girl -a bit shy and always out of the spot light, lost in that big house -, there was a connection between us. Something I enjoyed at the time and, I truly treasure now: He shared his fantastic stories with me. 

When randomly, planets were aligned and, I ended up spending some time alone with him, he was telling me those fantastic, crazy stories. He let his imagination go on and on and, I went on listening in a way that kept him ongoing: Looking intensely while he was talking, my mouth a bit open, by the wonders I was listening to.

I perfectly remember two or three of those stories. I am not sure if that was because I was quite little and a lot of time has passed, or because it was always the same two or three stories. I don’t know in that case, if it was then because his imagination couldn’t go further on or, because it was me constantly asking for them again, or maybe even, since the way I used to listen to them was so intense, deep and full of concentration, he couldn’t resist to try again their magic on me.

He was a very serious, stern man. Quite introvert. Very old style and usually spending most of his day in his office, at the house. Dressing always very smart, not out of narcissism, but out of tidiness. Hair perfectly combed back, slim and touched slightly with a dandy pose. So, hence, -just precisely because of that- I value those moments when he forgot who he should be, and let his imagination go wild.

He often went to Mass. I am not sure whether it was out of need (to pray, to be with himself, to reflect) or just because he was supposed to be there every Sunday, carrying his big family along, and following the gospel with his old leather book. 

The grandchildren did not enjoy much the Mass. It was quite dull and, we could not understand most of what was said. All we knew was that, it was supposed to be very important stuff, we were only allowed to leave the bench to help with the congregation’s weekly collection -and we eagerly did so- and that we should be sitting still, very serious and solemn. For some reason, that made us laugh quite often, till we were fulminated by our grandad’s icy gaze. Although, sometimes that gaze made us laugh even more.

Crossing red lines is fun. Crossing them, escorted by a team of troublemaker cousins, is irresistible. I guess it didn’t help either to listen my grandma’s singing, so loud it was all above the other voices. Trying to find her position as the congregation’s first soprano.

Nevertheless, sometimes we tried to be good kids too. We tried to impress our grandad, and then, we positioned ourselves by his side, and pretended to be interested in what was going on, to finally succumb to the old leather book’s charm: Those thin pages, all the different colour book markers, a full collection of memorial cards about Christenings, First Holy Communions and deceases of relatives, making a colourful summary of the circle of life. It was mesmerizing.

Perhaps we exaggerated a bit our real interest on the book, but still, he shared it with us. It was a bit less boring spending those fifty minutes, looking at the designs on the cards, the names of the relatives and the time of their losses. Travelling back on time, and landing on the other half of the century, on years that looked so far away to us as pre-history. 

He looked to me quite pious, never forgetting to bless the table and, giving the privilege to the youngest of his grandchildren. But maybe again, who forget to bless a table full of fantastic food  when one have lived the miseries of the war, the exile and the scarcities of post-war. When nothing could be found, when hunger was such a familiar feeling, that kept your company persistently, by your side, every other night and every other day.

There was something else very special with him: his noise. Some people are a fragrance to us, some people are a noise to us. Like my mother always was the clinging noise of her bangles to me, my grandad was the murmur of the valve in his heart. It was quite loud for a little valve and very impressive. Any time I was by him, I could hear the tic-tac of his heart. Like a clock, incessantly tac, tac, tacking along the seconds of his life.

I wonder how one would feel if that sound was constantly with you, day and night, deep in your chest and keeping you alive. Do you really get used to it, or would it be still somehow scary? Reminding you every second the weak line between death and life. For us children was somehow a wonder, we knew that ticking was coming right from his heart and keeping him alive, and we were listening to it with curiosity and a bit of apprehension.

He was the first one to leave us, more than 30 years ago, still quite young. 

I must say, although stories were not told any more by him, I took over. Naturally, without reflecting on it, without realising of the continuity preserved, I kept telling them to my brothers and they used to entertain us still for a few years. And then, eventually, I started making some new ones for my little brother. It’s a blessing having a brother some years younger. He was believing every single word of my “make on the go” fairy tales. I never realised he was actually believing everything I said.