JULY 5, 2023 – (Cont.) The other memorable example of Grandpa’s utter unflappability came about a month later (see 7/3 post).
By that stage of Grandpa’s life, his business was a faint shadow of its former significance. In reality it had been reduced to hobby status, a familiar diversion for a man who had known little else beyond work, business and civic organizations. For much of his life he had been a captain of the trucking industry—the “brains” that had contributed so much to high-level development of that crucial aspect of the American economy[1].
Yet in his old age he still took pride in knowing how to push a broom (as Grandpa had pointedly instructed me, there was, in fact, a correct way to push a broom), turn a wrench, wield a hammer and saw and maneuver a warehouse forklift. Most critically of all, he was an expert at loading a truck and filling a storage vault. Whether he was born with a genius for understanding spatial relationships or had simply developed the extraordinary ability over many decades of practical experience, Grandpa certainly knew how to size up a large household of furniture and estimate within a few cubic inches how much capacity was required for moving and storage.[2]
In any event, on the day of this particular object lesson in Grandpa’s coolness under pressure, a truck manned by two over-sized, thug-like characters showed up to load a bunch of household goods from the warehouse for delivery to a customer. I was first on the scene, and when the two ornery thugs yanked open the back door of their rig, it was clear from the size of the load to be crammed into the van that Grandpa’s ability would have to be called upon to get the entire shipment on board.
Before I could summon Grandpa, however, the bullies from central casting were man-handling the odd lot of household goods into their truck. Both men wore grimy, sleeveless T-shirts exposing brawny, profanely tattooed biceps. With two-day old stubble, bristle-like hair, Camels hanging from their lips, and choice words rolling off their tongues, they looked and sounded like escaped felons. They marked a sharp contrast to Grandpa’s own loyal, hard-working, conscientious workforce back in the halcyon days of his bustling enterprise. The characters at hand, however, jammed the goods on board with utter contempt for their work—and the goods.
When Grandpa appeared (in response to my anxious summons), he took immediate charge. “No, oh, h, h, h . . .” he said in his usual way of registering disapproval. “You cn’t jst frce thngs on lke tht. Hre, lt me shw you.”
With that, Grandpa—in suit pants, dress shoes, shirt, cufflinks and tie—turned to lift a chair onto the back of the truck. Just then, one of the Neanderthals yanked the chair out of Grandpa’s hands, planted himself smack in front of Grandpa and raised his fist. “You get outta our way, you fucking son-of-a-bitch old man,” the cave dweller roared.
I didn’t know what to do—or say. Eighty-five year-old Grandpa and I were wholly outgunned by these two slobs. I mean, Grandpa was, well, 85 and about five feet six on a light, shrunken-frame (albeit with a respectable paunch of the solid, not soft, hanging, variety), and if he’d ever uttered a single swear word in his entire life, even under his breath, it certainly wasn’t in my presence. Me? I was a skinny runner, a long-distance runner, not a fighter or a sprinter. My heart raced.
Grandpa, on the other hand, held his ground and kept his cool. He simply stepped aside from the threatening thug, picked up the chair again and placed it on the tailgate of the truck. He then climbed up into the back of the truck and began reordering the goods that the cavemen had haphazardly jumbled together. I think the thugs were actually a little awed by Grandpa’s fearlessness—and his obvious ability. Soon they were quietly handing him goods, which he, in turn, carefully packed into the truck. Within a half hour, the entire load was securely on board and on its way.
Grandpa said not a word about the encounter—to me or to anyone else. For him it was all in a day’s work. (Cont.)
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
[1] The (dramatic) history of Grandpa’s company is given deeper treatment later in the story. For now . . . when I was a little kid and Grandpa was in his 60s, I’d hear frequent mention of his travels far and wide to business meetings and industry conferences. Decades later I discovered in my grandparents’ house a large cache of speeches that Grandpa had delivered at various conventions during his many years as “industry captain.” They reflected an extraordinary command of language, business knowledge and strategic, as well as tactical, thinking.
[2] I remember an earlier occasion when I’d accompanied him on a visit to the mansion of some rich, old heiress who had died recently. The mission was to estimate the required truck hauling and warehouse storage capacity of 20 rooms full of furniture and furnishings. Based solely on a simple walk-through, Grandpa figured out exactly what was required in moving van space and storage capacity. He later gave specific instructions to his hired hands, and at the age of 80, even contributed his own considerable muscle to the effort. I watched with fascination as he directed how lamps, chairs, sofas, settees, tables, mirrors, silver, dish ware, pedestals, sculptures, large-framed paintings, bed frames, footboards, headboards, thousands of books, umbrella stands, cartons of all sizes, decorative and utilitarian cabinets of all sorts, and uncountable other objects were to be packed into a compact assemblage so tight there was barely an ounce of air within. In the process, not a thing was scratched or broken.
