The Grumpa Diaries

Got the grandpa role figured out after eight wonderful months under one roof

When my daughter and her sons moved in with my wife and I last October, her little sweet pea, KC, was just two months. He had that look babies have, like always surprised. “Holy shit! This is the world! Holy living fuck! How cool is this?”

My rather normally sized but exceedingly veiny hands covered his body. I was scared to hold this ultra blond, blue-eyed outlaw. That was a bit I did with my daughter early on. In the voice and innocent spirit of H.I. McDunnough, a brilliant Nicholas Cage in “Raising Arizona,” I would walk up to KC and with a drawl, “He’s a little outlaw. I can tell. He’s got those Waylon eyes.” My daughter isn’t into film and immediately axed the outlaw speech.

Still, I was nervous about holding the lil’ fella. Another part of that first pic with grand dude No. 2 was how my shoulders curved in. In retrospect, it looked uncomfortable, but, knowing what I know now, I could see the water heater was going to blow and the basement that is my back was going to flood. Getting to the floor for the morning animal parades with grand dude No. 1, JP, was like a semi-tractor trailer truck parallel parking in downtown Dubuque. But man, once I got there, JP and I would trail his animals — jungle, North American, birds of all sorts, three frogs all named Rudy. Getting back up? Farthest thing from alacrity.

For the first four or so months, I was working, still tending the bud in downtown Galena. We covered the departure from bud tending in the … uh … last episode. (I’m sorry for the brownout during the summer months, we will talk “island time” soon.) I have a hate-hate-hate-hate relationship with work, I’m coming to understand. In fact, picture Sylvester Stallone and David Carridine trying to kill each other in F1-ish machines complete with blades and machine guns. Work and I drive different versions of Death Race 2000 car to work and try to knock each other off the road. Work uses a flamethrower to edge the weeds on my fence line. And, yes, work knows my “weeds” are the literal fruits of osteoarthritis. Work is Cato to my Inspector Closeau. It’s that sound on the trail (did I tell you guys about the bear sighting in our area?). Really, just fuck work. I think after 30 years plinking out paragraphs on whatever telegraphical contraption newspapers used to torture good folk, I earned that. I did somehow manage to bring retail into my consciousness right there at the end and hell yes for that. I’m the best retail customer in the world now. Eye contact. Brevity. Welcoming hello and a warm good bye. I will listen to your upsell and politely decline. But really, writing sports or slinging the weed, it was work and I was the dog chasing that fender. I think whatever I would’ve ended up doing, I would’ve had to do it at ramming speed. I’ve referenced it here, but let’s call this “Dog chasing a fender” syndrome. If you’ve ever seen this phenomenon, it goes like this: You and your superstar dog, Travis, are playing along the creek in the front yard and a pickup speeds by on the gravel. You could be feeding Travis filet mignon and it wouldn’t have held his wolf eye back from that fucking fender. When you finally track down Travis three counties over and ask him, “Hey man, what the hell was that?” Travis says, “What fender?” And then you both levitate because the peyote is patting you on the head, hopefully gently and everyone and everything is evergreens and cardinals.

“Dog Fender Syndrome” kept me from consistent time with JP and KC (my daughter isn’t big on being out there, so initials it is). Also, let’s be honest, it’s difficult to be in the moment when you know what time the fender is coming and how long you’re going to have to chase that fucker after 30 years of chasing all kinds of fenders down literal drag strips and around football stadiums. Plus, my back was holding me back (wait, what?) from the world a little bit. If you have consistent pain, you know — unfortunately and, goddamnit, I’m sorry.

Maybe the best thing to ever happen to me was blowing out my back in April. My wife and I had one conversation. We aligned and now the only fenders I see are from my fat tire bike.

Finally, no more work shit holding back with the grand dudes. After three or so weeks of old-manning it around the house, I started lifting KC out of his highchair. Trying to lift. A few times, I only got the 14-pound future Iowa wrestler halfway out and had to bail. Physical therapy helped, but so did my squiggly little workout partners. Who wants to go for a ride in the office chair with wheels? Let’s spin and fly and make sure to stop before JP gets too dizzy, the vinyl floor is hard. Hey, how about building and destroying pillow forts? The bonding was bliss. As soon as I could manage to lift 18-pound KC out of the highchair, I was on it. I dropped that “future Hawkeye wrestler” on you. This kid has moves, I’m not shitting. He constantly twisted and turned in my lap and everyone’s. When he was in his playpen, he would allow himself to fall face first into the netting so he could pull some re-positioning. The clincher for me came when KC barred his arm on one side of my chest so I couldn’t get leverage to turn him the way he didn’t want to be turned. Brilliant. I truly believe some sports shit is innate and I’m afraid my daughter will be dealing with a cauliflower-eared outlaw and loving every minute of it.

I ended up, after a CAT scan and an Elvis amount of painkillers, with a thoracic strain and just needed time. I had to work to be able to lift JP’s studly 30 or 35 pounds. Oh yes, thoracic strains force you to shake hands with the “lift with your legs” creedo. And hey, that works. After maybe three weeks of babying it, I was back to hoisting 2-year-old JC like a sack of potatoes, which he enjoyed being called. This is where I finally figured out the way of “The Grumpa,” which is the Delta Tau Chi grandpa nickname my daughter lovingly pinned on me Day 1 (my wife I think had three different ones before finding the one that fit — hey, your grand nickname is a thing).

When we first jumped on the grand dude train three years ago, I noticed my wife reading a book that was, basically, “How to be a grandparent.” She talked to me about what she learned. I did give it glance and it made me reflect, but I was still going to haphazardly clown my way through this, you know, much like life for me. Goofy indulgences. Comic books. Whatever sugar bomb thing kids love (no sugar for these guys, so … CHIPS!). I kind of landed at “General Mirth Grandpa,” with the life lesson stuff not being as fraught and heavy handed, like it was for my kids. This lesson comes with a scene: It was winter and I was still working. It snowed and I was bitching about not being able to get out of the driveway. I raised my voice with KC in the playpen. He was looking at me and he started crying. Clearly, I frightened him. That stung and stung hard. That’s really been it for me and yelling. Oh anger, you sweet, sweet drug to allow our performative manipulation … enough and bye. So, as a grandpa, I sure as fuck want to be better. Just be better.

JP’s little voice is a violin from heaven. It’s so delicate and he’s always so polite and friendly. He’s a 2-year-old and has his moments questioning authority (I like to think I taught him that), but all the time and every time, he’s polite and friendly. My wife has seen him reduce doctor offices to tears while walking out and waving goodbye with a friendly, “Thank you so much!” His voice unwilts flowers, I swear to God. When I was first able to lift JP, he was my all-time coffee assistant. Imagine beginning your mornings teaching the sweetest voice this side of Gram Parsons how to pronounce different coffee beans from around the world. I’ll never unhear his “Guatamala.” We both would end up giggling after that one. I’d hold him in my right arm and make pour over. “Tanzania.” “Costa Rica.” He would smell the beans or the grind and let out the world’s greatest “Ahhhhh.” As it goes with 2-year-olds, the coffee ritual lost its pop.

Coffee is fine, I wanted more of that voice. “JP, you wanna go up to the mailbox.”

On with the slipper clog thingies and out the door, into, yes, the thunder murk that our weather has been this summer. Just to the left off the bricks, a pretty giant turkey feather sat staring right at me. Hell yes, I can use this. This first time, I told JP the turkey had to run away from the bobcat, who can’t help it. He’s a carnivore. Yes, I heard the heaven voice say “Caaara-bore.” Don’t worry, JP, the turkey got away. It was May or so and the turkeys are thick here, so the next day, there was a turkey so, you know, we avoided the “Bambi’s Mom” moment (we are a “fast forward the first few minutes of ‘Finding Nemo’ house”). A T-Rex, semi tractor trailer truck, space monster and I’m sure alligators chased the turkey at one or two points during the Mailbox Run, which became a 5x daily occurrence. This spot offered a view way down into the woods. JP loves his jungle animals, so we kept an eye out for lions, giraffes and zebras.

When the flowers bloomed in May, we added a right turn. Yes, you want to hear JP sniff a flower and let out that coffee “Ahhhhh!” We ended up laughing together every time. We briefly had a stop on the deck, but there were ants, so fuck that, right JP?

Up the steps, on the way to the garage, my wife has a little metal duck sculpture made out of a horseshoe, bolt and half of a referee’s whistle. We said hello to Mr. Duck every day and touched his beak (we have to start our day with ritual touching of things, like college football). Next, I had to crane JP down to pat Mrs. Katt, the rock sculpture my wife has at the top of the steps. He liked to pat Mrs. Katt’s heart-shaped ears.

Then, we jetted across the driveway toward a garden bursting with various colors of perennials (I’m sorry, I don’t know what they are) for our morning visit with Gnome Man, a gnome a bought at Wal-Mart … for the weed tent. Production overrun kicked Gnome Man out of the tent and into the garden. He looks brilliant. Some bits get stuck and I can’t talk myself out of them. I thought “Gnome Man” sounded a little bit like “Spoonman,” so my morning introduction for my 2-year-old grandson to the garden gnome was “Gnome Man, come together with your hands,” you know, the Soundgarden tune. Anyway, you know it was a ploy to get JP to say “Gnome Man.”

A hard left and then at the end of the driveway, there was another rock garden with some lillies and a birdhouse. I modeled a bluebird family after his favorite cartoon, “Bluey.” We never did see a bluebird, but I know they’re around.

On the other side of the driveway and just before the hill was the coolest spot. A couple summers ago, I was in the garage working out. It’s two floors, so I could see the front yard. I think I opened a window or something and just — wham — right there was a bobcat, wheeling on a path through our bushes and right up to our front door. Before it ate our cat, I kinda made a noise to scare it. I think it was mildly irritated when it zoomed up the driveway and, hopefully, far enough away. JP loved “Bobcat Trail.” Still wants to see it on the FaceTime (thank Jah “Bladerunner” invented video phones). I would tell him, “Shhhh, I think the bobcats are sleeping.” Not long after the kids took off for home, we had a bunch of rain and it made a lot of mud. I did see a ton of bobcat and turkey tracks in and around Bobcat Trail. I sent those pics to my daughter. JP loved them. Now we both think bobcats live there and likely will laugh a little nervously when we tiptoe by the Trail next time he visits.

Now, on the Mailbox Run, we are trucking uphill. First stop on our left is the peony bush or whatever. We foisted “This Bug’s Life” on the kids growing up. My wife and I love it. It’s a “Seinfeld” and “Kids in the Hall” sandwich with Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Dave Foley. We couldn’t wait to treat the grand dudes to that one. Yes, JP loves it. He was never once scared of the bad man (Kevin Spacey, I know, that one wrote itself). But in real life, JP doesn’t want anything to do with those spiny beasts of burden. He liked me to crane him down for a good overview of the ants munching peony bulbs. That was close enough. Those ant bastards.

JP picked up on the electric box that does sit in some beautiful tall grass on the driveway island. “Yucky electric box” was JP’s commentary on nature and man, man. He’d be happy to know that the grass has won the war for nature once again this summer. You can’t see it now.

Finally, the mailbox. We did this five times a day. The mail was bound to be there once (usually the second try). JP loved carrying packages. When the mailbox was empty, he would say, “Darn it.” Yes, hearing the heaven voice say “Darn it,” sigh was a very cool thing for me.

The road inside was a cruise down the driveway. We have a prairie field splotch with bluegrass that shoots way up there. You can’t see our house from the road when it’s cranking to the sun. The field was to our left when I pointed out to JP the green grass we call “blue grass.” Sometimes in the morning, we’d catch these purple flowers that would disappear when the sun started to rise. We’d stop and look at the “pretty purple flowers” and daises or whatever else I could think of and then try to get him to repeat. So I could hear it and always have it and carry it with me.

After the flowers and grass, the momentum from the hill pushed my pace. Every day, JP would sing into my ear as I held him in my right arm … “Down, down, down.”

“Down, down, down.”

I would slow down.

“Down, down, down.”

I would stop.

“Down, down, down.”

JP would hug my neck and put his head on my shoulder. I’d close my eyes and sing, “Down, down, down.” And, like my meditation app tells me to do, I appreciated that moment.

It took maybe two, maybe three, weeks of Mailbox Run before I thought about the book and “what kind of grandpa” I wanted to be. I think maybe storyteller type. I have a history and, wow, that was a lot of fun this summer. Or I could go “Bullshitter Grandpa,” that’s still up for grabs. It’s just an exit on the grandpa freeway.

So now, the morning is just “going to the mailbox” and “shit, it’s hot going to the mailbox, you go, darling.” Kidding. I like the walk. And, JP, the turkey feather is still there.

It was all summer before it dawned on me that, yeah, we were going to have a genuine military homecoming something or other. We didn’t plan much. Just “Basic America.” A cookout with all of the meats and a few beers. Don’t know how my son-in-law started enjoying radler beer style, but I’m good at that beer shit.

My big contribution was a mailbox walk where I could hand JP off to his dad. It took five times … by the end JP kinda figured it out … but we did it. Son-in-law, complete with the “Super Troopers” military mustache, got out of the Subaru my wife drove and there he was. There they were. Finally. Nine or eight months or whatever. It was a long time for a 2 1/2-year-old boy whose dad is his super hero. JP reached for his dad and I happily handed him off.

And then it was down the hill toward the house. I heard JP sing.

“Down, down, down.”

Our pace quickened, past the green grass called blue grass.

“Down, down, down.”

I knew JP was going to hug his dad. I knew it. I had to hang back for a minute.

“The Dog Fender” thingie is gone, but the doctors say my “Ugly Cry Face” might be terminal.