In Which I Remember My Grandfather

When I think of my grandfather, I think of Christmas.

Every year around Christmas time when I was growing up my grandfather would adjust his glasses, pull on his heavy red plaid flannel coat and his boots, and we’d head down to the local Christmas parade. We’d usually get there a little early and find a place to stand somewhere up close to the front. The high school bands would march by, the floats would pass, and all of the little kids (and some not so little) who were throwing out candy to passersby would run up to us, place a double handful into his hands, and whisper to him what they wanted for Christmas. He would nod gravely to the children and the candy would disappear with a faint crinkling sound into the large pockets of his coat. I used to think it was horribly unfair that my grandfather ended up with so much more candy than I did just because he looked like Santa Claus.

And he did look like Santa Claus; from his rosy cheeks and his white beard right down to the gold Turkish elf-shoes with the turned up toes he kept on the mat by the front door. Rather on the thin side for a Santa, perhaps, but one glimpse of his mischievous grin would convince almost anyone that Kris Kringle, when he wasn’t delivering presents to children across the globe, masqueraded as a retired dentist-turned-gardener who lived in a mid-sized suburb of Dallas with his wife and yellow lab, enjoyed fishing, spoke Chinese, and played a mean game of pool.

My grandfather passed away quietly today after a slow decline over a period of months. I won’t be able to make the funeral, but my heart will be in Texas this weekend with my grandmother, my father and his sisters, and the rest of my family.

So a merry Christmas and much love to you, Papa Daddy.

It won't be the same without you.

~Jess