My Guk

The photograph that she mentions below.

My young mouth cannot say my grandfather’s name (Gus, short for August); the closest it can come is Guk. I have been regaled with family stories that when I wanted to find him to sit on his lap, I would say “I want my Guk.”

He was a saint, uncanonized by any organized church.

Leaving school at six to help support his family, he kept up a reading habit throughout his life, mostly inspirational books.

Refusing to be angry with people, when some co-workers try to sabotage a promotion, my grandmother, ever quick to want vindication—if not retribution--wants him to act defensively. He merely says, “They can’t enjoy something they got wrongfully. It will all work out.”

Once the young boys next door, their heads full of toy guns and make-believe war, asked him how many people he killed during the war. He replied, “I hope I didn’t kill anyone.” Even at my young age I knew this was the correct answer and was proud of him.

He enjoyed ordinary hobbies: paint-by-number and woodwork in the basement. And his taste in music was low-brow: Tennessee Ernie Ford singing “The Old Rugged Cross.” But this man of simple tastes was a miracle-maker to a young child.

One Christmas he made me a wonderful doll house—white façade, red roof--which I kept for years, until I outgrew it—or my family decided I had—and it went to my cousins in Jersey, where rough play quickly reduced it to a pile of splinters.

For my birthday one year, he ordered the woodworking plans for a circus, complete with a lady bareback rider, horses, and three rings. Best of all and a sign of true love, he took me to the backyard and, sitting with me on our lawn, helped me set up and play.

He also made me a grinning yellow rocking horse, which, for some reason, I was reluctant to ride. I seem to remember—or was it told so often that it’s seeped into my memory?--that after my father’s funeral my relatives came back to my grandparents’ house. My cousin Judy mounted my rocking horse, whereupon I shoved her off and reclaimed my treasure. True memory or family myth, I can almost feel my hands shoving Judy aside.

Once we were going on a long car trip and my grandfather went to the neighborhood Mom and Pop store that sold comics. He brought back quite a collection to keep me amused. And, naive and innocent man that he was, he had included two True Confession magazines, which my female relatives immediately confiscated.

My grandmother thought the world a dangerous place: mayonnaise coming into contact with aluminum on a hot day turned to a deadly poison, canoes capsized because their V-shaped bottoms could not balance on the water, and vipers and other harmful wildlife waited to prey on unsuspecting children. Most of my outings with my grandparents, therefore, were sedate: going to graveyards to tend the graves of relatives. But I remember one trip to Coney Island with my grandfather rolling up his trousers so that he could go into the ocean with me and keep me safe from the fierce undertow that would drag me out to sea, another of my grandmother’s fears.

The only time I remember him being angry was when I was sitting on our stoop with a slate and some local teenager—Vince Something-or-other--wrote an obscenity on it. Being adept in sounding out words—and it was only one syllable--I came into the house, read it aloud, and asked what it meant. Without answering, my grandfather flew out the door to confront the corrupter of his granddaughter. Fortunately for Vince, he had already de-camped. My grandfather’s pacifism had limits where I was concerned.

My grandfather had always loved animals, but had been forbidden to own one, first by his mother and then by his wife. Their Germanic cleanliness would not sanction a dirty and germ-infested pet. My mother, however, had been persuaded to take a dog that somebody in our church could not keep. Enter Shadow, the black cocker spaniel. Over my grandmother’s grumblings, it stayed and soon became my grandfather’s pet. When he retired, he took Shadow on daily long walks around the neighborhood; man and dog were inseparable.

But then, life being the fragile thing it is, my grandfather was run over and killed by a truck. At the funeral—closed casket since he had been decapitated in the accident--the viewing room was filled to overflowing with people unknown to my family. These strangers would approach us and say they had seen an obituary in the paper and wondered if it was for the man “who walked the small dog.” It seems his walking also involved stopping and chatting with people along the way, gradually leading to a mass of casual friends, drawn by his goodness and kindness.

Once, when I was clearing out some boxes in my mother’s house, I came across my grandparents’ wedding picture, a studio portrait in sepia tones taken in a make-believe garden. My grandmother is sitting on a chair, pensively leaning her chin on her hand. She’s quite lovely, not the overweight rather dour person I remember. My grandfather is standing behind her, close but not touching. This is now framed and holds pride of place above my bureau. As I gaze at it, I cannot help but notice a resemblance between my grandfather and husband, perhaps more in terms of expression than actual features. They both exude a benevolence that could never do anything mean or petty. I hope my grandmother knew what a gem she had.

I remind myself to tell my husband how much I love him.