JULY 3, 2023 – (Cont.) In a way, I felt sorry for Grandpa. Despite being an organization man, he didn’t have any what I’d call personal friends—people in whom he could confide on a personal, not just business level—but perhaps that was a more general characteristic of his generation. Yet even within the family he seemed to be an outsider. The rest of us were an expressive bunch. We said what was on our minds—happy, sad, angry, curious, opinionated.
Grandpa talked a lot, but it was strictly “bihness.” And that’s exactly how he pronounced it–“bihness.” Occasionally he would chuckle at his own humor, which was stilted, repetitive, and often obscure. For example, his birthday was May 30, and after Congress changed Memorial Day from that date to the last Monday in May, Grandpa would make light of the fact that he “could no longer keep track of how old [he] was.” My sisters got to hear this line every year when we wished him a happy birthday and in his late 80s and early 90s, whenever in our presence anyone outside the family asked how old he was.
The closest Grandpa came to showing disapproval of anyone was a, “No, oh, oh, h, h . . .” again, through barely parted lips, followed by an explanation of the correct way of doing what should be done. I remember him correcting an errant office employee who had informed Grandpa that “a load was being held for pickup by Berger Express next week.” With a disapproving tone, Grandpa said, “No, oh, oh, h, h . . . You wnt to tke tht ’n snd it to Rnallo Brthrs so they cn pck the load up n gt it to Joisey City tmrrow.” But in any case, Grandpa operated on a completely even keel. Even in his later years when UB would lose all patience with Grandpa and yell at him, “You can’t do THAT!” Grandpa maintained his cool.
I remember two occasions that put Grandpa’s composure to the ultimate test. Both occurred during the five-month period when I actually lived with UB and my grandparents and was on the payroll of Holman, Inc., which at that stage of the game was a mere shadow of what had once been a thriving enterprise. It was the time following my bar exam right after law school and preceding my extended trip around the world (in retrospect, my attempted escape from the demons of my inheritance).
One of these two incidents occurred while Grandpa and I were standing under the huge overhead garage door at the entrance to the cavernous, combination docking area, truck maintenance section, and parking-storage floor. The door itself was a good 25 feet wide and over 12 feet high, and for much of the day, it was in an open position. I can’t remember exactly why we happened to be standing there, but there we were, with Grandpa imparting instructions or maybe it was one of his monologues about bihness—I can’t be sure. In any event, we weren’t going anywhere soon, as he talked and I listened, our arms folded across our chests. Just then, my ears caught a disturbing sound high above us—metal breaking. Before I could react, the sound of metal breaking gave way to a terrible clatter and the roar of a freight train. A mass of wood, steel and glass swept past us with tremendous force, blowing dust-filled air into our faces. I leaped like broad-jumper with heart pounding as I realized how close we had come to serious injury or worse. As we soon discovered, the bracing that held the top ends of the door track had snapped, and as a result, the whole system had given way, with the open door, in a horizontal position directly overhead, falling in a huge downward sweeping arc. While I cowered, still sweating, panting, scared out of my wits, Grandpa stood as steadfast as ever, completely unfazed. As if responding to a juice glass falling off a kitchen counter and breaking on the floor, he walked straight off to fetch a broom and began sweeping up the glass. “Hhhh,” he said. “I gs wll hv to gt the grge pepl ovr hr to dl wth ths.” (Cont.)
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
