I remember Grandpa sitting at the upright piano playing songs while toddler-aged grandkids scooted in closer, gathering around him. His back was straight, and all nine and a half fingers danced across the piano keyboard playing “The Sting” or “Alley Cat” or “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?” That one was a favorite, and when it was time, we'd bark, “Ruff, ruff!”
Later as an adult, at Christmas, I remember that when Grandpa picked up a guitar, harmonica or accordion, we’d stir with anticipation because we knew the singing was about to begin. We passed around the lyrics sheets because, if we didn’t, by the second verse there might be one or two singers rather than 30 or 40. Grandpa always sat on the end of the band as he softly tapped both feet as he played. He wore an easy smile, and his fascinated eyes scanned the room, taking in the joy of the moment. I hope we mirrored his light and joy back to him, and I hope he could feel it.
Grandpa was easy to be around. But you had the sense that he’d been through some things. We had heard about his mother dying when he was just a boy. We had heard he went to Europe during World War II. We knew he lost his first wife when they were both relatively young. Even if we didn’t fully understand it all, it just seemed like his ease and calm were rooted in experience. Rather than hardening him, though, it softened him. His kindness and steadiness were 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 a meal, going to the nursing home to “play for the old people,” 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.
If he knew you liked those cookies, he pushed the dish a little closer to you with a wink. If he knew you loved pickled herring, he and his wife made sure that dish would be on the table when you stopped to visit. The care and attention was always there. Later in life when he was hard of hearing, he didn’t use that as an invitation to close off. 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. Our Grandpa’s truest gift was making people feel like they mattered. Every adult and child — family, friend or stranger — felt loved in his presence.