My grandpa died last week. He was one of the loudest people I’ve ever known. All Elvrum, all the time. So loud and exceptionally full of life. As a child, I adored the loudness that he created, welcomed, and celebrated with me. As an adult, I came to realize that with all the noise, there also existed a man that loved crossword puzzles, reading, building anything with his hands, the ability to listen to many Christmas lists, and live theater. There was some quiet, but mostly, he was loud.
Rides in the car meant we got to sing at the top of our lungs, belting out to the point of pain. Dinners around the table were interruptions, debates and off-topic stories that we were encouraged to participate in with our own anecdotes or opinions. Arriving at his house for a visit included nicknames and laughing, joyous greetings for all, no matter the time. Opening presents, no matter the gift, the noises he’d make were animated and excited. The hearing aids didn’t do much to turn his volume down. He was just loud in his utter zest for living.
When we were around, he wanted to be with us, for he loved being a grandparent. His devotion to our family, to education, to humor, and to just showing up is woven into his life story.
During my elementary school years, he drove 90 minutes (each way!) once a week to volunteer at my and my brothers’ school. He knew our teachers, the principal, and had opinions about how the entire district was doing. Of course, I had no idea how unique it was to have him there each week, year after year.
Long-winded, rambling anecdotes can connect dots from significant times in my life to his. There was a decades long joke about me riding a lawnmower that was maybe only funny to him and me. He built me a dresser that I still use every single day. At Christmas, he’d give my grandma terrible lingerie each year and write the best/worst nicknames to her on the tag, our family silent for the moment to have his “love note” read aloud. His monk cookie jar he insisted be filled with Oreos, now lives on my kitchen counter, an inheritance that brought me to tears. Though, I’d take one of my Grandma’s fresh baked cookies over an Oreo, if given the choice.
I am the granddaughter that went to the same college that he did, picked a similar career path, and I too am sometimes loud. I am the grandchild that made him a great grandparent first. This fact alone is the one that makes me deeply aware of where I sit on our family tree. In a funny way, I got to see history repeat itself because with the arrival of my children, my grandpa simply continued to show up. Louder than ever, he loved on my girls, and the eventual additional great grandchildren that came. Lucky us.
For my whole life, saying goodbye to my grandpa included a hug and him “whispering” in my ear that I was his prettiest granddaughter, but because he was so loud, I have it on great authority that he also told this to my cousins with similar frequency. Another decades long joke, as he had no favorites, just allegiance to hilarity and love.
As the years got longer, the stories, locations, and even people started to slip away and mix together creating impossible timelines. Damn you, Dementia. Until he couldn’t, he kept showing up.
This last summer, on a rare visit, I happened to capture him holding my cousin’s baby, Georgia, my grandma’s namesake. My aunt and dad were standing behind him watching it all unfold, now facilitators bridging a memory loss gap.
They’d been on a slow journey watching their dad fade away. Lots had been forgotten, a home cleaned out, a move to a safer environment, and questions about how we’re all connected were frequent. A slow goodbye, not necessarily a quiet one though.
We’d come together on that August day and had passed the baby, his newest great granddaughter, to him because we all knew he loved babies. In a snap, a laugh erupted from his mouth, it isn’t super loud, but it is familiar. The very sound we’d all likely heard when we too were new to the world, being held by him.
The adoration and love he had on his face while holding Georgia was remarkable and obvious. He continued baby talking and cooing to get her to smile or laugh. We were all struck by the interaction, proving what we knew to be true: he was still there. Grandpa. Still showing up.
All Elvum.
All the time.
The prettiest grandpa I ever did see.
