I remember my grandpa sitting at the upright piano playing songs while grandkids scooted in closer, gathering around him. His back was straight as all nine and a half fingers danced along the piano keyboard. He’d sing, “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?” and when it was time, we'd bark, “Ruff, ruff!” And then squeal, “I do hope that doggie’s for sale.”
Ease. Joy.
At Christmas years later, when he picked up a guitar, harmonica or accordion, we stirred with anticipation because that meant the singing was about to begin. We passed around sheets of lyrics since nobody knew more than one verse of any song. Grandpa always sat on the end, never in the middle, and he softly tapped not just one but both feet as he played. I’d watch his fascinated eyes scanning the room, taking in the joy of the moment.
That was his way.
What am I trying to show you here? To say? My grandpa, our grandpa, was so easy to be around. That sounds like a small thing until you realize how rare it is. His kindness was like a warm field of energy that surrounded him and enveloped you.
As a child, I didn't have a word for it.
Whether he was playing music, sharing cookies, delivering Meals on Wheels, going to the nursing home to “play for the old people” (who were all younger than him), or simply sitting in his chair listening, he gave his full attention.
He was present.
He never seemed to be rushing toward the next thing. When you spoke, he listened. Really listened. He found humor and lightness in simple moments.
He would turn up his hearing aids and lean in.
“Ohhhh.”
His eyes would brighten.
“Is that right?”
His eyebrows would rise.
“Oh, okay.”
These were simple responses. But they carried something many of us are hungry for: the feeling that what we are saying matters. That we are safe to say what is on our heart.
Today, we talk a lot about communication. We talk about leadership, connection and influence. But maybe all of those start with presence.
When I think about him now, I don't just remember the songs he played or the stories he told. What I remember — and what all of us remember most — is how it felt to sit in a room with him. Calm. Safe. Seen.
His most lasting gift wasn't music, although it remains. His truest gift was making people feel like they mattered. Every adult and child — family, friend or stranger — felt this way in his presence.
In a world that is so distracted, that may be one of the greatest gifts a person can give.