Sweet Yet Sour

Today is November 25th, the first anniversary of my Grandpa, Les Jones’ death. I loved my Grandpa very much and I miss him today, and most other days of the year. In memoriam, I’m going to share what I remember and what I loved about my Grandpa.

My Grandpa was an auto-mechanic and owned his own garage for most of my life, “Les Jones’ Independent Garage” in Hillsboro, Oregon. I have always associated the smell of auto oil and gasoline with my Grandpa. His hands especially smelled like oil and gas and they were constantly stained with oil. I was always calling my Grandpa for car advice; he was my own “Click and Clack” and he gave out car advice with humor.

Once I called and told him that the heater in my truck (a 1982 Chevy S-10 now junkyard scrap) was making noise. Here’s a summary of the conversation:

Dorrie – “Grandpa, the heater in the truck is making funny noises.”

Grandpa – “Does the radio work?”

Dorrie: “Yes.”

Grandpa: “Well, then turn it up.”

(Later, he told me that I needed a new heat core, so he would eventually tell me what was wrong.)

Another time, I called because the gas meter in the truck always showed a little above “Empty” even when it was full. Grandpa advised that the gas meter was probably stuck at the bottom of the tank and that I could try going over a bump or two to dislodge it. When I called a few weeks later to complain that the problem had not been fixed and that I was now hearing a weird noise when I turned, Grandpa could not stop laughing for a while. He then explained that I shouldn’t have gone over so many bumps; I had now cracked an axle.

I loved my Grandpa’s laugh, so even though I was in for a lot of repairs, it was good to hear him laugh so long.

My grandpa was exceptionally intelligent, funny and could play a piece of music on the piano after hearing it on the radio. When I was a little girl, he taught me to play a song on the piano about a little frog. From then on, his nickname for me was “Little Froggie” and Grandpa would send me stuffed frogs and other frog things for my birthday and Christmas. He was “Big Frog” and I sent him lots of frog things as well.

My Grandpa met my Grandmother when he was working at ammunitions plant here in Denver. They married and soon after he was drafted to go off to World War II. He ended up in an mechanic’s pool that repaired the supply trains and traveled a great deal, including “Persia” as he called it, India, London and Paris. Once I took him out for coffee and I asked him where he had traveled during the war. It was one of my favorite times with him; he traced his route in the war on an imaginary map on the table for me and told me a little bit about each place he had gone.

Last year, my Grandpa had a stroke, and while he survived, my parents advised my sister and I to make the trip to Oregon to see my Grandpa. Grandpa was in a physical rehab center when we visited, so our time with him was limited. He was still my Grandpa, but not the same, slower, thinner and just not the same. I cried the day that we left, knowing that would be last time I saw him.

The day before Thanksgiving I took the day off to prepare for all the cooking I was going to do on Thanksgiving. I went to the store and began experiencing the longest deja vu I have ever had; almost two hours. Everything was as if I had dreamed it before and I always knew what was going to happen next. It was so long I was physically sick after a while and became convinced that something was wrong. When I arrived home my sister called soon after to tell me that my Grandpa had suffered another stroke. I began to wonder if I had told him that I loved him, if he knew I thought he was the most perfect Grandpa. But it was too late, he was in a coma. My Grandpa died a few days later and I have missed his laugh and love ever since.