My grandfather was given one of the worst names I've ever heard : Hayward Issel. Thankfully, everyone called him H.I. Well, except for me - I called him Papa.
He was one of those wrinkly, bald old men who always wore brown zip-up coveralls like mechanics wear. He was a locksmith by trade, but an outstanding fisherman and grandfather by design. There are a few things that always come to mind when I think about him, most of them make me laugh and shake my head. Quite a character he was.
One of my earliest memories with him was when he bought me my first (and only ever!) pair of cowboy boots. I was about 5-years-old. I remember him handing me the box; I was thrilled. I put the boots on and gleamed with pride, kissing him on the cheek. They were tight on my feet, but I didn't mention it. After about half of the day walking around in the boots, I was in so much pain I couldn't hold back anymore - I started to cry, embarrassed that his gift caused me so much pain. Even at a young age, I knew I didn't want to hurt his feelings. After much coaxing, I explained my pain, and he was quick about removing the boots. Inside, he found the wadded pieces of paper the store puts in shoes so they retain their shape. I'd been walking around with 3 inches of wadded paper curling my toes. I remember his face as he tried to hide his laughter.
When I was about 12, I got a package from him. I remember grabbing it from the mailbox and running into the house, overjoyed that Papa had surely sent me something amazing. I opened the box and found a roll of toilet paper. Attached was a note that said "I thought you might need this one day." It was one of my favorite gifts I'd ever gotten - so very him. I kept that toilet paper roll on my dresser for years.
When I was 14, after a series of heart attacks, he ended up in the hospital. By the time I was able to visit him, he was on a breathing machine and couldn't speak, but he'd wink at me when I was there. He was also able to scribble notes to us. He would write "want watermelon" and "fried chicken please", showing us that his appetite was still healthy despite the fact he could only eat from a tube.
He's buried in a cemetary that's right next to a neighborhood. He picked his plot out before he died. Why that particular plot? Because it was next to a house with a grill. He said, "I'll always be able to smell when they barbeque." And so his healthy appetite lives on.
Before he got sick, I would go fishing with him a lot. When he was teaching me how to fish, he showed me how to bait a hook, cast the line, and watch the bobber. He said when a fish nibbled the bait, it would feel "like this" and he pinched me lightly on the arm. For some reason, it made complete sense to me and was a sort of infinite wisdom.
Everytime I think about him now, I feel a little twinge in my chest. It's hard to explain. It feels kinda "like this."
