Being Grandpa Dean
Why I carry a pocketknife
Edward Earl Dean was born in 1919 in Dothan, Alabama. He was Eddie to his friends, “The Colonel” due to some kind of ceremonial proclamation he received from some kind of odd Alabama state proclamation application process, and Grandpa Dean to me. I was his firstborn grandchild, and since I happened to have been born in Texas while my father was in the army, that meant that to Grandpa Dean I was usually “Tex” or “the Texan”. When I was about six he paid for a set of family portraits, adamant that I dress like a cowboy, and he borrowed a real .45 revolver he insisted I wear for the photoshoot. Because he was awesome like that.
Because I was his oldest grandchild, that also meant I got to spend more time with him than any of the other grandkids. He did not pass away until I was 20, so I got to hang out with Grandpa Dean all through my most formative years. He was awesome.
He was a backslapping charismatic good ol’ southern boy. He dropped out of school in about eighth grade (it was the Great Depression, and finding work was paramount), and swerved through several careers (construction, insurance, shopkeeper) over the course of his life. By the time I knew him he was in his last working chapter, as a top salesman at the Mercedes-Benz dealership in Salt Lake City, Utah. Around town he drove S-class loaner cars from the lot almost exclusively. I still have one of the gold rings he won for being a top performer.
Now when I describe him that way, you probably have an image in your head. You’re right. He laughed loud. He watched all the football. He responded to surprises by drawling “my hell!” He let me swipe cokes from the fridge when my parents weren’t around. He flirted inappropriately with waitresses. He told me dirty jokes (in the parking lot at church while waiting for the rest of the family!). He was awesome. He was exactly that guy, and growing up around him I picked up some things.
The smallest but somehow most persistent thing I got from him was a pocketknife. As a southerner, carrying a pocketknife was something he seemed to consider his birthright. He was never without a knife, a simple little jacknife, the kind with metal bolsters and some flavor of plastic imitation deer antler in the middle; some makers call it an “old timer” now. String, envelopes, packing tape, fruit, you name it, the utility of the pocketknife was astonishing to my young self. Grandpa Dean used it all the time.
So now I carry a knife. Mine is more complex, but it’s still a centerpiece of what’s in my pockets, every day.
Pay the Lady
I have many fun stories of my grandfather, but my favorite goes like this. My family lived in Riverside, but Grandma and Grandpa Dean lived in Salt Lake. We would visit twice a year, winter and summer, all through my youth. As my younger sister and I got old enough to travel more independently, Grandma and Grandpa would drive down to California in the summer (in their sweet custom GMC Jimmy van with the 8-track player stocked with Marty Robbins, Anne Murray, and The Oak Ridge Boys). They would hang out for a couple of days, and then take the two of us back to Salt Lake with them for a week or so before my parents and younger siblings drove up.
We would stop in Las Vegas, at Circus Circus, for lunch; in the 80s Circus Circus was the only family-friendly joint in town. We would play carnival games and have a hamburger before hitting the road again.
On this trip I was 11, and we hit Vegas to make our stop, play some games, and have our burger. I won a 1984 Los Angeles Olympics commemorative plate for shooting a water pistol at a clown face to inflate a balloon. You know the game. And with plate in hand and a burger consumed, we were leaving the Pink Pony restaurant, and Grandma and my sister headed for the bathroom (no shade, just the way of the world). Grandpa decided to kill the time waiting for them by trying out some video poker, which was quite new at the time.
Now he was old (no shade, just the way of the world), so he couldn’t figure out the machine. To an 11 year-old in 1984, however, arcade games were completely intuitive. So he let me help. I stood next to him, with my plate, and pushed the buttons for him. Sit with that a minute. We did. And we only had a few minutes.
Three times some staff woman on the casino floor came over to tell my Grandpa that I was NOT allowed to play the machines. But we were winning, and stacking quite a pile of quarters on my 1984 Los Angeles Olympics commemorative plate, so he would move me a step away until she left, and then let me slide back over.
Finally, the third time, she threatened us with a thousand-dollar fine. My Grandpa looked at me and my plate of quarters and quipped: “Pay the lady.” I dutifully offered her my plate.
She was … not happy. Today this would almost certainly have gotten out of hand. Back then, she just marched me several good steps away (across the aisle and away from the machines) and told me in no uncertain terms to stay put. But by then Grandma and my sister were out of the bathroom, so that was it anyway.
My 11 year-old self walked out of Circus Circus with the pockets of my corduroys bulging with quarters, feeling richer than Midas (probably 20 bucks in quarters, but still), and swaggering like my Grandpa Dean.
He did swagger, but I learned later that it wasn’t just because he was a self-confident guy. It was the arthritis in his knees. Grandpa was riddled with arthritis. His hands were gnarled, and he had fingers crooking at all angles. But to me that just made him more unique, with more story and more character.
Loving Grandma
Grandpa met Grandma at a USO mixer of some sort in Utah, where Grandpa was an army scrub waiting to muster out post war, and Grandma was a reluctant attendee dragged there by her social-butterfly sister. You couldn’t invent a better postwar meet-cute. Grandpa was convinced he had seen my grandmother in a dream and fell in love with her instantly. He pursued her ardently, and, so the story goes, quit smoking and drinking cold turkey at her request. They ended up quasi-eloping, with her boarding a bus to meet him in his native Alabama.
Since Grandma had to travel, Grandpa was in charge of the arrangements. Grandpa being Grandpa, on filling out information for the marriage license he realized he did not know my grandmother’s own mother’s full name. So he made one up. This created a strange wrinkle in the family genealogy that my own father (the current keeper of the family tree details) still laughs about.
I have no memory of Grandpa that does not involve him worshipping Grandma, and striving to give her anything she could want. To her credit, Grandma was a no-nonsense farm chick from rural southern Utah (the hamlet of Antimony, not especially far from Bryce Canyon), so while she could have really raked him over the coals in a relationship like that, I have no memory of Grandma that indicated she ever took advantage of Grandpa’s zealous loyalty.
Grandma and Grandpa slept in separate bedrooms for as long as I knew them, and while I found that odd I chalked it up to them being old and never really asked why until much later. The truth is a moving one in its way, and illustrative of Grandpa’s utter devotion to his wife. After the birth of their second son, a very difficult pregnancy that threatened her life, he never slept with her again. He was terrified that a third pregnancy would kill her, and couldn’t bear the risk of losing her. So he just put that all aside (though encroaching arthritis and prostate issues would eventually make that voluntary move permanent). The idea that Grandpa loved Grandma enough to NOT have sex with her represents a level of devotion I’ve reflected on from time to time. I’m still amazed by it.
The totality of Grandpa’s love for Grandma is probably best expressed in their deaths. As a southern Utah farm daughter growing up in the 1940s, Grandma was part of the original downwinder population: residents of the area in the drift path of the early nuclear tests in Nevada. This population had a wildly outsized occurrence of health issues, and Grandma was no exception. Several cancers killed her in 1992.
Grandpa lasted 18 months. My uncle found him, and all evidence seems to indicate Grandpa got up that morning, readied himself for the day as normal, then sat down in his easy chair, put his head down, and died. It makes sense. Grandpa had no use for a world that didn’t have Grandma in it.
I was out of state and could not attend Grandpa’s funeral. I had a flash of bitterness about that, but as time has marched on for me I’ve come to the conclusion that it was probably for the best. I never saw Grandpa in decline. I never saw him break. Strictly speaking, I “never got to say goodbye,” at a funeral, but that also means I’ve never had to say goodbye. For me, Grandpa was always a backslapping charismatic good ol’ southern boy, from the time I can first remember him until he was simply gone. I cherish that.
Being Grandpa Dean
Grandpa Dean was 54 years old when I was born. As I write this I am 52, and my wife and I drove to Fresno a few months back to celebrate the 2nd birthday of our own oldest grandchild. Grandpa Dean lives again! Only now he’s me.
I hope I can give my granddaughter as unique a character to remember as my own Grandpa gave to me. We may not play video poker in Vegas (though never say never, I suppose), but I’ll love her Grandma openly and without hesitation or apology, because grandkids should know their grandparents love each other. And I’m definitely going to teach her to carry a knife.
Great piece.
Great story Loren. Loved it!!!