Every Christmas was the same. A bottle of Johnny Walker for Grandpa and the latest Avon glass candle for Moo Moo.
40 years ago, when gathering together was more important than a bunch of gifts, a single present was enough to make anyone's holiday jolly in my family. There's something reassuring about getting the same treat every year, or a version of it. There are no fears that things are changing when you sort of know what's coming. Time stands still even though we are aware of its passing. The importance of tradition, for us, cannot be overstated. A single, thoughtful, highly anticipated gift made us feel remembered, loved, and comfortable.
I miss those days.
My Grandpa, if he were alive today, would be dumbfounded by Marie Kondo Sparking Joy by cleaning closets and her other highly touted simplification measures. Grandpa could have taught all of us a thing or two about plain living and avoiding our desire to amass a bunch of crap that no one needs.
Seriously. Why do we have all this CRAP?
He had one pair of slippers. They were corduroy, from Sears, and got replaced every Father's Day. The old ones got tossed away.
He had one pair of sneakers. They were white low top Converse, made during an era when all Converse made were white (actually they were sort of off white) sneakers. The only choice you had was whether you wanted high or low cut.
He had one coffee mug and if he said "Get me my coffee mug" you knew damn well which one to grab.
He had one favorite cereal (Frosted Flakes), one favorite cookie (Mallowmars), one favorite soda (Pepsi) and one favorite everyday meal (meatballs, heavy on the venison, over spaghetti with salad and, you guessed it, one salad dressing...oil and red wine vinegar, always hand blended in the same Tupperware cruet.)
He only drove Fords. He only wore Dickies trousers (in only three colors, olive, tan, and navy). His favorite movie was "Midway" and we watched it over and over when VHS and VCRs were invented. His favorite musical was "South Pacific" because he was a WWII Navy veteran. He knew all the words to Bali Hai. I'm not sure if it was his favorite, but we sang that three note song like Bloody Mary herself. "Bali Hai may call youuuuuuuuu. Come away, come away."
He camped and God help you if you tried to convince him to take any other kind of vacation.
He enjoyed living in his two family home which he and Moo Moo owned for close to 50 years. It allowed them to provide an inexpensive apartment for countless family members just starting out before they could afford to buy a home of their own. My parents and I benefitted from living in the downstairs half of that two family ourselves for a couple of years.
He liked restaurant food, but only certain food from specific restaurants, all within a 5 mile radius of his house. If he wanted a fish fry, we knew to go get it from Gene's. If he wanted liver and onions, you'd be foolish to get it from anywhere else other than Vivian's. If he wanted Kung Pau Chicken, it'd better come from Yip's, and that's it.
He drove a truck for Dorn's transportation even though he started out professionally, post wartime, as a law clerk. Eventually, the idea of clerking indoors all day made him unhappy and uncomfortable. Becoming a Teamster was something he loved talking about. He was proud to be a union guy. He had one tie tack, Teamster logo. He probably had one tie.
His life was simple but it was not boring. It was enjoyably jam packed with people. He had more company than any person I ever knew, to this day, because he was involved with and knew everyone in his community and also because he kept the front door unlocked at all times. People just came and went all evening long, and eventually, once he became disabled and unable to work, all day long too.
I'd visit and hear the familiar banging of the entrance door; it was a massive wood portal that had a big rattly glass panel in the center which made the house shake when slammed shut. No one ever yelled, "Don't slam that door!" because you had to really put your weight behind it to close it all the way. That entrance door led to a lengthy hallway, that then led to Moo Moo and Grandpa's front door into the flat. We kids and Grandpa always played the game of guessing who was coming down that hallway by how they closed the door, the noises they made (if any) and their footsteps. Grandpa got it right almost every time.
"Here comes Al.', he'd say and in would pop my Great Uncle, who'd puff clouds of Burley and Bright Half and Half pipe smoke in his face as he bent down to enthusiastically shake my Grandpa's hand. Then Al would march off to the kitchen to see if there was any coffee. He'd reach on top of the refrigerator to grab his little slide top tin of saccharin tabs. Everyone knew they were his.
"Here comes Marc", and my teenaged cousin would come in, with his thick-lensed 1977 brown framed glasses, spinning his red, white and blue ABA basketball expertly on his middle finger. "What's up, Unc?" Marc would grin and say, giving my Grandpa the soul brother handshake, popular at that time. Marc almost never ate dinner before coming over. He knew he could stay a while, enjoy warm leftovers and play Pong, which my grandparents had hooked up to their bulky wooden television console at all times. Despite having no kids at home, they were the first people on the block to have a video game attached to their TV because people who stopped by might just want to play electronic table tennis.
"Here comes Jimmy", and Jim, who lived next door, would burst in. "Hey Uncle Ed!" he'd say with a loud and deliberate delivery and then he'd sit down on the couch next to my Grandpa's chair and talk nonstop about whatever happened to be on his mind that minute. It could be Giants football, the fact that his roof was leaking or the notion of global thermonuclear war but the level of intensity was always the same with my beloved cousin. Because Grandpa maintained an even keel at all times, and knew a little about a lot, everybody found him approachable and easy to sit with.
One of my favorite stories about him and me (and I have hundreds, but I need to wrap this up) took place when I was 16. I'd had my permit for a little over two months and wanted some vehicular freedom so Dad told me to pick him up at work that Friday night and we'd go to Moo Moo and Grandpa's for dinner. My father was working a new job, about a 45 minute drive from home and his girlfriend drove him that day. Although she offered, I pigheadedly eschewed directions, probably with a wave of my jelly-bangled hand. I've GOT THIS. Plus, it was the '80s. What could possibly go wrong?
Well, it was December and I took a very wrong turn. I drove around for at least an extra half hour, a lost, shivering, wreck. Calling from a mighty sketchy payphone in the dark I heard Moo Moo answer the phone. "Where ARE you?" she said, with a worried tone I was not accustomed to hearing. "I don't KNOW!" I shouted, completely low on gas, blood sugar and patience. "Ask her what she SEES!" shouted Grandpa from his chair. I rattled off two completely random landmarks as Moo held the phone in the air for him to hear and he calmly stated, "Oh. She's on the corner of Columbia and Congress in Cohoes" and he was right.
My grandmother came and I followed her 15 out of the way miles back to her house. My father, thankfully, had managed a ride. The four of us chuckled for an hour over Kung Pau Chicken (you know where it was from) and each time someone lumbered in, having body slammed the door, shaken off the cold and snow, and pulled up a chair, we retold the events of the evening while digging into the Chinese food and howling, over and over. In fact, we couldn't wait for the next visitor to come in because Grandpa was now saying his part aloud and hooting with delight at each retelling.
By the way, my single Christmas gift that year from Grandpa was a map. I shit you not.
#JohnnyWalker #Avon #Converse #FrostedFlakes #Mallowmar #Tupperware #Ford #Dickies #Midway #SouthPacific #BaliHai #Cohoes #BurleyandBright #mushroomtumbler #1980s #1970s
