Grumpy Old Men

I didn’t know either of my grandfathers very well.  One I never met. It was not clear to me, but I would guess now he had left when my dad was a child, and as a result, there was no discussion about him.  Although on a couple of occasions my father would talk about riding with his dad in his horse drawn hauling wagon.  He told stories about going into the oil field in Oklahoma with his dad and they just started off across country until they reached their destination.  I wanted to know more but my father seemed reluctant to talk.  I’ve always had the strangest feeling that everything I knew about my grandfather was a lie.

My mother’s dad was incredibly old when I was little.  I only remember him sitting out under a huge tree in his front yard—doing nothing.  I think sitting, doing nothing is unusual today, might even be interpreted as early stages of something.  But there was a time when many people just sat and watched nothing.

Both of those men had led awfully hard lives doing physical labor almost every day.  It was common for farmers and laborers to die before they reached my current age.  I’m not sure how old my grandfathers were when they passed, but they had probably been physically exhausted long before they died.

I never lived that life, working until you’re bone tired.  My life was easy.  I worked mostly in an office.  Educated and privileged, most of my problems in life were self-made.  Nevertheless, I was a worker.  I worked long hours and always wanted more.

I’ve always had a need to be productive.  My self-worth is tied to a sense of accomplishment.  A need to create work.  It is why I’m a writer.  I was never a farmer or hauled equipment in the 1920 oil field—so my understanding of work is different than my grandfathers’, but we share a work ethic that is quite common. 

Before that day comes when I just want to sit and stare, I want to finish something –not sure what that is.  I think about the old man, my grandfather, sitting under that tree staring off into the distance; what was he thinking?  Did he regret his life, did he dream of something different?  Did he want to finish something that he hadn’t?  What was it?

Why didn’t I ask him?  Well, I was a stupid kid, and, in many ways, he scared me.  No way I was asking him anything.  And yet, he might have known something I needed to know.

“Listen kid, I spent my whole life bustin’ my ass and look at what it’s got me.  Sittin’ under this damn tree starin’ at birds.  Not sure what the answer is, but it sure isn’t hard work.  There’s nobody that has worked harder than me, and I ain’t got shit.”

Nah, he probably wouldn’t have said that, but maybe?

I think I’ll just keep workin’, writing, painting, thinkin’—must be some answer somewhere; or maybe not. 

“Listen kid, I spent my whole life bustin’ my ass and I feel great.  I’ve got a nice house, yard with a tree to sit under, plenty of food, my god, what else could a man want.  I don’t know the answer about work or not work but I do know you should do whatever you want—enjoy every minute of every day.  I did, and I’ve had a great life.”

If I hadn’t been scared and I had asked, what would he have said?  Might have just said, go away kid and leave me alone.  He always seemed a little grumpy to me.

Now, my grandmothers, what wonderful people.  Plenty of hugs and kisses (and candy); now that is what it’s like to be a successful, happy person.  Didn’t need to ask them, it was obvious, live each day like it was a gift.

And don’t grow up to be a grumpy old man.