My Last Conversation with Grandpa

It was a beautiful Saturday morning in July. After putting it off for far longer than I should have, I decided to finally get some work done in the backyard. It took hours, but when I was done, my yard was a sight to behold. Task completed, I opened up a lawn chair and sat in a shaded section next to my house to revel in my work.

Sometime in the early afternoon, it couldn’t have been later than two o’clock, my grandpa walked around the house. I was pleasantly surprised to see him standing in front of me. After all, he’d only come over once or twice since my family and I moved in almost a decade ago.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure he knew where I lived.

He smiled at me and waved, “Hey, Meathead! How’s it going?”

“It’s going well, grandpa. I just finished some yard work.” I got up to hug him, “What brings you to this side of town?”

He put his arms in front of his face and turned his head. “No Meathead. — please sit down. You look filthy and smell worse.” He paused for a second before adding, “No offense.”

I looked down at my sweat-soaked, dirty shirt. Grandpa wasn’t wrong — it was disgusting.

“Pull up a chair and stay awhile.” I pointed at the folded lawn chair leaning against my house. “I’ll go inside and grab Samantha. She’d love to see you.”

Grandpa, still grinning, shook his head. “That’s okay. I can’t stay long, Meathead. I was in the neighborhood and wanted to say hello.”

As he stood there, I couldn’t shake the feeling something was a little off. My grandpa — who’d been my hero for as long as I could remember — showed up unannounced (I didn’t mind the unscheduled visit, it just seemed out of character). Not only that, he didn’t want me to let my wife — whom he loved dearly — know he was here.

In the end, I decided it didn’t matter. I was just happy to see him.

“Okay, grandpa, what’s up?”

“Well, Meathead, I was thinking about you and hoped you and I could talk about life.”

I was thrilled. How could I pass on the chance to not only hang out with my all-time favorite person in the world (sorry, mom), but hopefully pick up some life lessons from a man who has seen it all?

There was just one nagging question, and this seemed like the perfect time to ask.

“Absolutely, grandpa! First things first, though — why do you call me Meathead?”

He’d called me that for as long as I can remember, probably even longer. As far as I was concerned, it was a term of endearment — his way of celebrating our bond. It meant something special to me (and hopefully to him too).

That being said, I’d always wondered how it started and what it meant.

“It was because of your head. When you were little, it looked like a meatball.” He laughed, “Come to think of it….”

I knew he was joking — probably — but quickly changed the subject. “Okay grandpa, now I know — let’s move on. “

He nodded, “Well, Meathead,” he paused for a second, grinned, and then winked at me, “you have your own family now. You’re doing a wonderful job, and I’m proud of who you’ve become — but I was hoping you’d let a frail old man impart some of the wisdom he’s picked up over his many years of experience.”

Then grandpa shifted his gaze from looking in my direction to directly at me. “Who knows — maybe you’ll find one or two of my stories worthy enough to pass on to your kids someday.”

I was stunned. The man I’d loved and respected for a lifetime wanted to talk to me about life? Of course, I’d listen. How could I not?

I leaned forward in my chair.

Grandpa, rightfully so, took my action as an invitation to begin.

Story after story flowed out of him — each more incredible and thought-provoking than the one before. Some, because of family lore, I’d already known. Others, because of family secrets, I’d never heard.

Time stood still. It was like he and I were the only two people on the planet. Eventually, the yells of my two kids as they sprinted from the house into the backyard to play interrupted our conversation.

Only for a moment, though.

A single tear ran down my grandpa’s cheek as he watched my kids run around our backyard. I’d never seen him cry before. I didn’t know what to do,

I felt like I needed to say something — anything — to break the tension. “They grow up fast, don’t they?”

Grandpa nodded without turning his attention from my children, “Meathead, it felt like it took forever to turn eighteen. Then, I was eighty years old in the blink of an eye.” He wiped his face and turned toward me, “Life moves quickly, kid. Pay attention to everything, so you don’t miss a single second of the journey.”

Then he grinned again, “I love you, Meathead.”

“I love you too, grandpa.”

Just then, almost as if on cue, my wife called my name from our back door. I turned my head in her direction and yelled back, “I’m out here! Come out and see the yard.”

She walked outside with tears in her eyes. Something was wrong.

I quickly got up and walked over to where she stood. “What’s the matter?” I knew it had to be something big. My wife was not a crier.

“I just got off the phone with your mom. Your grandpa passed away a couple of hours ago.”

“No, he didn’t. He’s right here with me.” I turned around, “Tell her grandpa.”

He wasn’t there.

My wife put her arms around my waist. “No, your grandfather died. Your mom is making arrangements as we speak.”

I nodded but honestly didn’t hear a word she said. Grandpa was standing right here with me — or was he. I thought back to his visit. Were his “life lessons” his way of saying goodbye?

The more I thought about it, the more believable it became.

He showed up out of the blue, wouldn’t let me hug him — heck, he wouldn’t even sit next to me while we talked. The whole time he was here, he kept his distance.

Instead of sticking around and saying hi to my family, he disappeared into thin air when they came outside.

The realization hit me like a ton of bricks — he was gone. My grandfather had passed away.

I sank into my chair, crushed by the news of my grandpa’s death but thankful for everything he’d done. I will carry his stories for the rest of my life.

I put my head in my hands and cried. My wife stood by my side, rubbing my back and trying to console me.

My ever-intuitive youngest son must have seen me from across the yard because he ran over as fast as his little legs could move him to hug me.

“I love you, daddy.”

I wiped the tears from my eyes, wrapped my arms around him, and looked at his little face. “I love you too, Meathead.”