Grandpa was bi-vocational for much of his life, and to this day, tells some of the best stories that farming and truck-driving could possibly have to offer. Or perhaps it's the way his blue eyes sparkle with tears of mirth while his shoulders shake silently that makes simple every day encounters with animals and people from all corners of the globe so incredibly engaging. His voice gets thick, and if you listen without watching, you may think he was about to cry. And I have seen him cry. But not when he's telling a story - he tells stories for the sake of enjoyment, and they always end in that hoarse voice, barely able to squeeze the words around the bubble of laughter coming up from the core of his body.
One of the benefits about being the first granddaughter is that among all the stories of pigs refusing to cross imaginary lines and little Italian boys proclaiming the wonders of their mothers' sauces, there are also several about my own life that circulate in our family lore.
Before the days of cell phones, Grandpa would stop at diners while out on the truck, usually on the way to New York City, to grab a bite, and call Grandma from the pay phone. He did this very thing one day - January 30, 1982 - and this time he was met with some exciting news: his daughter had given birth to his first grandchild - a girl. He found out her name - Jessica - and after a while hung up the phone and went to sit down at the bar for some lunch.
Eager to share his news with someone, he told the waitress who was pouring his coffee, "I've just become a grandfather - I have a new granddaughter!"
"That's wonderful!" the waitress replied, undoubtedly used to many road travelers looking for someone to tell their stories to. "What's her name?"
At this point, Grandpa found himself confused...what was her name? He had just heard it...
He looked at the waitress, and falteringly said, "Um...Jessifer."
"Oh...", the waitress said, taken off guard. "That's ... that's nice. Congratulations."
To this day, 31 years later, the name lives on in my family. I'm referred to as "Jessifer" as often as I am anything else. And it's precious to me, that silly name. It's a relic from another time, when communication was not so instant, and life contained a few more surprises. He walked into the diner that day, not knowing that this call would be special. And when the time came to tell my name, he couldn't quickly text message to ensure that he got it just right.
But more importantly, the name Jessifer is a token of my grandfather, one that I'll always carry with me. I love to picture him in his late 40's, sitting at the diner, engaging with people in his relaxed way, his blue eyes squinting as he looks into space trying to recall my name, and the tone of his voice as he tries to say it.
One of the benefits about being the first granddaughter is that among all the stories of pigs refusing to cross imaginary lines and little Italian boys proclaiming the wonders of their mothers' sauces, there are also several about my own life that circulate in our family lore.
Before the days of cell phones, Grandpa would stop at diners while out on the truck, usually on the way to New York City, to grab a bite, and call Grandma from the pay phone. He did this very thing one day - January 30, 1982 - and this time he was met with some exciting news: his daughter had given birth to his first grandchild - a girl. He found out her name - Jessica - and after a while hung up the phone and went to sit down at the bar for some lunch.
Eager to share his news with someone, he told the waitress who was pouring his coffee, "I've just become a grandfather - I have a new granddaughter!"
"That's wonderful!" the waitress replied, undoubtedly used to many road travelers looking for someone to tell their stories to. "What's her name?"
At this point, Grandpa found himself confused...what was her name? He had just heard it...
He looked at the waitress, and falteringly said, "Um...Jessifer."
"Oh...", the waitress said, taken off guard. "That's ... that's nice. Congratulations."
To this day, 31 years later, the name lives on in my family. I'm referred to as "Jessifer" as often as I am anything else. And it's precious to me, that silly name. It's a relic from another time, when communication was not so instant, and life contained a few more surprises. He walked into the diner that day, not knowing that this call would be special. And when the time came to tell my name, he couldn't quickly text message to ensure that he got it just right.
But more importantly, the name Jessifer is a token of my grandfather, one that I'll always carry with me. I love to picture him in his late 40's, sitting at the diner, engaging with people in his relaxed way, his blue eyes squinting as he looks into space trying to recall my name, and the tone of his voice as he tries to say it.
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