“It takes a big dog to weigh a ton,” he said. I nodded in agreement, but I didn’t know what he meant. Then, my grandfather pointed at me with an open bag of Fritos he’d been warming in his lap while napping in his favorite chair. “Would you like a corn chip?” my ‘Papu’ asked with a smirk…"They’ll make your hair curly.” I would always help myself to a handful for the sake of the ritual…it wasn’t the first time I’d been offered a stale chip from his end table stash of recliner snacks. And I’ll be damned if my hair isn’t curly to this day.
For as long as I knew him, my grandfather said ridiculous things that rarely made much sense in the moment. And my grandmother, ‘Nana,’ would tell me, “Your grandfather isn’t thinking right.” She’d follow that up with a long sigh and a reassuring smile that only a kindergarten teacher could muster. She had a certain sadness about her, but it was most always negated by a contradictory and unwavering kindness she shared with every person she met. I knew it was in there, though…the sadness…underneath a shield of stubborn selflessness. There were no half-hearted back pats for Nana. She had no use for patronizing appeals from people who couldn’t really relate…no need for sympathy sans empathy. She was Mrs. Heaton, the lifelong kindergarten teacher. She was the reassuring smile you needed more than she did. She was the sweetest lady a person could inherit a sadness from.
And I wish I could smile like my Nana. But instead, to disguise myself in moments of doubt and turmoil, I channel my Papu. I snarl a bit, as he did. Papu snarled ‘til the day he died, a year after my grandmother. And in a cruel, ironic twist, my grandmother died trying to keep Papu alive. She doesn’t have a birthdate carved on her gravestone, but the two mink coats my grandfather bought her are stowed away in our guest bedroom closet. It’s a highway house we live in, my wife and I, just as it had been when Nana and Papu lived here.
Along with the minks, my grandmother kept every godawful construction paper valentine she ever received. And every glitter-dipped pine cone ornament and every graduation invitation. She could recall forty years of class roster roll calls when a familiar face greeted her at the post office, all while finishing impromptu handwritten letters to old friends who’d never write back. Hell, she even used more postage than necessary to better decorate each envelope for its recipient. I remember wishing she’d write me a letter like that, with four stamps and extra curly cursive. She probably did and I’ve likely forgotten…shame on me and God bless my grandma.
I share little stories from time to time with my own students. They seem to enjoy my ramblings but they might only be humoring me…they’re sweet like that and I enjoy a captive audience. Today, in an attempt to better tell an old story to a group of underclassman, I decided to share some of my latest paintings—some portraits I’ve been working on for an upcoming exhibit. The kids are critical, of course, as they know I expect them to be, and brutally honest in the most helpful ways. Their critiques aren’t contaminated by the pretentious jargon that typical fine art discussions are hinged on. They say the first thing that pops in their heads, thank God, and rarely does it have to do with composition or color theory. They only know how to ponder the most important questions. So when I shared a painting of my Papu, they asked “Is that your grandpa?” When I shared a painting of my grandmother, they said “I know her! Who is she?”
And when I shared with the class a painting of my wife, Brittany, and our dog, Gibson, I cried. Gibson has been gone for a couple years now. I couldn’t help but weep. I attempted to laugh the tears away but had trouble. I tried to find a smile to ease the nervousness I’d created. But instead I snarled…and choked on an apology while the class sat in silence. I was mortified…defeated. And then a voice from the back of the classroom whispered, “It’s okay.”
It’s nearly midnight now. I’m staring at a new face staring back at me from my Papu’s favorite chair, in the sunken living room of a highway house. He’s a rescue we named Murphy. It takes a big dog.
Wyatt LeGrand
3/16/2022
