Visiting my grandparents in Wisconsin included nightly concerts with a house full of aunts, uncles, and dozens of cousins all gathered in their living room. Every adult had an instrument or two to play, whether guitar, banjo, harmonica, or accordion, and everyone would sing. My brothers and I would run around outside with our cousins playing hide and seek until it was too dark to see the overgrown tree roots upending sections of sidewalk. Mosquito-bitten and physically spent we’d come inside and each of us would find a coveted spot on the floor at our parent’s feet.
The whole house filled with music and laughter for hours. When I could no longer keep my eyes open, I gave out a round of hugs and wandered off to my favorite bedroom at the back of the house, or even better, up in the attic. I’d crawl under pounds of quilts and sink into new depths of the old mattress. It took forever to warm up the icy sheets enough to drift off to sleep.
Back then nearly all my aunts and uncles smoked. My grandpa though liked to chew tobacco. When we kids navigated around his chair, we knew to watch out for his spittoon. The last thing you wanted to do was knock that thing over. One memorable photo shows me with my grandpa’s large grizzly arms around me pulling me close. I have a look of horror and am desperately leaning away from him. The smell was what bothered me more than the idea of him getting juice on me.
Most memorable was when grandpa played accordion. He was transported by music. I watched him closely and would wait for him to catch my eye. He’d flash a giant bear-hug of a smile, a smile you’d never get any other time. His big belly beneath his suspenders bounced when he laughed. Suddenly he was not my grandpa at all, but was just a little kid, just like me, self-conscious and shy. He always had a twinkle in his eye as if everything in life amused him.
The last time I saw my dad was in Durand, the same town in Wisconsin that he’d grown up in. His dementia was progressing and keeping him at the assisted living facility without 24x7 care was no longer an option. That morning, his words were so jumbled that he had to resort to using hand gestures. Even this yielded no discernible meaning. I knew it would be the last time I’d see him. My brother was driving him six hundred miles to a facility closer to him and my sister-in-law. The move to Indiana was not optional and was as hastily planned as a shot-gun wedding.
We had a quickly gathered going away party that was surprisingly well attended given the haste. I doubt my dad even knew the party was for him. He never shied away from a party and was always happy to entertain. Not knowing what to expect, someone handed him his accordion. He played as if no time had passed since he played for us when I was a child. His fingers glided over the keys. He may have artistically combined two different songs, but he made it work.
Entertaining friends and family always made him happy. Just as he finished playing, he looked up and caught my eye. His whole body bounced with laughter and his smile lit up the room. His eyes glistened; he seemed timeless. Just like Grandpa, Dad was always amused by life.
