I never knew my grandparents on my father's side since both of them died before I was born. I did though know my grandparents on my mother's side. As I think I've mentioned on the blog, this grandmother made it to the age of 97. That's impressive and so was the fact that she was married for 49 years to her third husband. That's right: I said third husband.
Grandma and that third husband of hers lived in Hartford, Connecticut and came out to Los Angeles for two or three trips over the years. We had a two bedroom house — one bedroom for my parents, one bedroom for me and my comic books. Mine, of necessity, had to be larger. When Grandma and Grandpa visited, they'd sleep in my bed and I'd sleep on a rollaway bed in the living room. I was about a third serious when I cautioned them to keep their grandparently hands off my comic books.
I was around sixteen when Grandma and Grandpa made their last trip out before the latter passed away. Each visit, Grandpa liked to go out and work in our backyard, trimming hedges, cutting back out-of-control vegetation and picking fruit off our three fruit trees. Remind me one of these days to tell you about those three fruit frees. Grandpa was a tough old guy who liked the sheer feeling of accomplishment and perspiration. It made me feel odd that he could do a lot more yardwork than I could even when he was more than five times my age.
One day when he was out back, a small family meeting was called in the house without his knowledge. Grandma had a problem she wanted to talk over with my mother, my father and me. Put simply, she thought her loving husband had become too old to drive. He'd had a few minor accidents recently — no one hurt, nothing seriously damaged — but they concerned her, as did some close calls when she went somewhere with him.
The discussion was not about whether or not he should stop driving. It was obvious he should stop driving. The discussion topic was who was going to tell him…and how. None of us wanted to hurt this dear man and that would obviously hurt him.
Various ideas were tossed about but the talk kept coming back to one answer: I should tell him. He was real fond of me and thought I was very smart, not just for my age but for any age. I didn't particularly covet this assignment but I was outvoted three to one with me being the one. The three assured me it would be the least painful coming from me. It didn't have to be done immediately…but it had to be done.
I took him a lemonade made from the fruit of one of those trees he was trimming. Then I sat us down in lawn chairs and said, "The people here who love you, myself included, have made a decision. This is only because we love you. It is only for your own good." And then I told him. I made it clear we were not asking him to consider it and it was not open for discussion. We were saying he was going to stop. No arguments.
He stared at me like I'd just announced I was pregnant or something. And as he stared, I could see tears beginning to seep from his eyes. His lower lip trembled a bit and I thought he was about to have some sort of breakdown or tantrum…or something.
Then he wiped his nose and agreed. I leaned over and hugged him and he hugged me back. We both knew he was never going to drive again.
A couple hours later, we headed out to a restaurant for dinner — my father at the wheel, my mother in the seat to his right and my grandparents and me in the back. Only before my father got behind that wheel, Grandpa hopped into that position and announced, "I'll drive!" He got a big laugh and then he moved to the back seat. When they got back to Hartford, he put his car up for sale.
It was the first time I realized that sometimes, the solution to a problem is to be very honest and very direct. It doesn't always work but when it does, it really solves the problem.