Funny Grandpa Joe

My son started to laugh at the gas station. That’s kind of an odd place to get a case of the giggles, but there the 10-year-old was in the backseat of the minivan having a hard time containing himself. It started before I stopped at that pump to fill up the car, it continued when he got out to clean the windshields, and it didn’t stop for another five minutes.

“What are you laughing at?” I asked with a smile.

“Oh, nothing,” he said.

“He’s got a case of the sillies,” said my 85-year-old father.

“Boy, you got that right,” I said.

Robby and I had arrived in Nashville to visit Dad who has been battling aging issues since November. School starts in another week or so, and it was my turn to visit Dad. So Robby and I made the 350-mile trip to see him and Momma.

As usual, one of the first subjects after we greeted one another was “What’s for dinner?” The tradition, if a nine-month habit can be called a tradition, was to take Dad out for lunch and dinner each day. It was great for him to get out of the assisted living facility in Nashville, but it wreaks havoc on our waistlines.

“I got a taste for seafood,” Dad said. So the Red Lobster in suburban Cool Springs was our destination. Dad went for the whole hog, in this case lobster, Robby had one of the combo plates, and I settled for salmon.

It was after dinner that we pulled into the gas station. I stopped the car, looked out the window and realized I had picked the diesel pump. “Whoops. That’s diesel,” I said. “Damn diesel,” Dad said.

When you’re 85 and you have some mild vascular dementia, your leash is pretty long. You can say and do things and get away with them that other people cannot. Such was the case with the “Damn diesel” comment.

But 10-year-old boys senses of humor are tickled by bodily functions and swear words. Robby just lost it when Dad said, “Damn diesel.”

Robby revealed this to me the next day. “Grandpa is just so funny,” Robby said.

That “bond” only strengthened in the coming days. My son is not exactly noted for his work ethic, just like almost every other 10-year-old American boy. But a change came over him when he was around “Grandpa Joe” as he calls Dad.

He didn’t have to be told to get Grandpa Joe’s walker. Robby just got it.

He didn’t have to be asked to help his Grandpa Joe out of the car. Robby was there putting his little hand in the middle of a massive back to get Grandpa Joe going.

He didn’t have to be told to escort Grandad up to his room. Robby just did it.

“I like helping Grandpa,” Robby said.

“I like seeing you help him, son,” I replied.

“He really is a good boy. He is so helpful,” Grandpa Joe said.

A bond between a grandfather and grandchild is one of the most precious things we witness in our lives. I had that a little bit with my maternal grandfather, but these moments I get to cherish between “Grandpa Joe” and Robby remind me of what I missed … and what someday I will witness again, maybe with my own grandson.