irving

i woke up this morning and the first thing i thought was, it's grandpa stu's birthday.

i miss him a lot, especially around this time of year, so i knew he had to be my beautiful thing, but it's hard to know where to start.

maybe with my grandmother? their love story lasted fifty-eight years before he died, and i have a bit of a notion it still continues. they fell in love when she was eighteen. he was twenty-seven, and spotted her instantly. she tells me one of the things that made her really love him was the music... he was an adept pianist and had this lovely, deep, rumbly voice, and he always knew all the words, and then some. and he needed her. she was the person he wanted to settle down with, and she loved him, and cared for him his whole life. on the telephone tonight, i asked her what her favorite memory of him was. she thought for a while; i'm sure after spending your entire existence with someone it's hard to pick one moment. but after a short silence, she told me it was when her mother got married in their living room and he played the piano. the song was "indian love call," and i'm sure he performed it beautifully, and then they had the reception in the long room next to the kitchen.

my cousins and i have more similar memories of him, of course. and whenever we talk about him, there's never a pause in the conversation; the more we reminisce, the more we are able to conjure up the obscure details that made us really adore him.

i'm finding this a challenging post to write, because i am so full of love (and my eyes are definitely more than half-full of tears), so here, in no particular order, are some of the things that made stuart irving tollenaar such a special human being:

he was very particular. things always had to be a certain way: i remember that the cold faucet in the bathroom had to be turned all the way off, but the hot faucet had to have the H perfectly vertical. he'd check the handles after i washed my hands, and as a child, i always felt the thrill of anticipation as i waited to hear whether i'd satisfactorily shut off the water. he'd always tell us to look both ways before crossing the street. and i'm not saying that lightly; i mean, several times a day. and he'd tell my grandmother to drive on the right side of the road, which i never entirely understood. he didn't like using his turn signals, and when i asked him about it, he told me he was saving them. i always resisted the urge to shout, "for what?" and would grimace instead. he never had crumbs on his placemat, liked quiet at the dinner table, and introduced me to ovaltine.

he smelled so good. sitting anywhere near him, you could catch the winning combination of his own scent mingling with ivory soap and bactine. he liked to wear flannel shirts, and they soaked it all up. i went into his room a few months ago, and peeked in his closet. i was astonished to find that his shirts still smell exactly like him, and was instantly overwhelmed with unexpected emotion.

there was always dancing, too. he and my grandmother courted in an era where it was popular to go on sunday drives, or dance at the german club. late into his life they still attended dances, occasionally taking us with them. it was he who taught me to foxtrot in their kitchen, and he thought it was hilarious how much i loved happy hans' polka music. nothing made me happier than watching he and my grandma dance together, usually in their slippers.

there are infinite funny stories about him too, my favorite of which carries with it an important moral. as my mom retells it, they were eating canned spaghetti while camping at lake wenatchee. my grandfather had poured copious amounts of pepper into his spaghetti to flavor it, but much to his chagrin, there were terrible gnats that year. so while everyone else could easily spot the pests in their pepper-free spaghetti, he was faced with the awful dilemma of not knowing which black specks were bugs and which were simply seasoning. the moral? don't bring pepper to a campsite.

his favorite flowers were irises. he sang amazing old songs, like ramona, just a gigolo, irene, and lullaby of the leaves. he once wrote my mother a three-page letter on the importance of wearing seat belts. when he got older, my grandmother would leave him post-it notes if she stepped out to run an errand. he kept all of them. he'd had a german shepherd named max when my mom was a kid, and would praise him so highly, i don't know if any dog will ever live up to him. he loved the hymn "once in royal david's city." when he was in high school, he'd have parties, play piano for his friends, and go by the very cool name, "irv." he loved the huskies, but didn't like it when i talked during the game. he had great reverence for nature, and taught me about the brothers and the various mountains we could see from the backyard. my mother and aunt and uncle remember him pointing to mount rainier on a beautiful day and saying, "look at the mountain, kids." i remember him chasing me with his mouth in this perfect little circle, shaking his head, or mimicking the commercial for ivory soap: "it floooooaaats..."

and perhaps most importantly to me, before my amazing dad came into the picture, he was my father figure. he was so habitually consistent that he always felt safe and steady to me. i had the gift of knowing that he would unconditionally love me.

shortly before he died, he met j. at that point his memory was almost entirely gone, but like the gentleman he always was, he smiled and extended his hand, then nodded, and said, "it's very nice to meet you." i am so thankful two of the most important men in my entire life had the brief chance to meet. i wish he were here today to see so much of what's happened in the last couple years, but i'm going to focus instead on the gratitude i feel for his enormous presence in my life and in who i am today.

we all miss you grandpa stu. and i sure hope you're wearing your seatbelt.

love,
j