Crumbs from the 4-1-9

By Snickers

My Tribute to Grandpa

• With the hint of his spearmint gum in the air, grandpa would maneuver his four-door boat by reversing slowly out of their driveway. Even though grandpa must have backed out of that narrow driveway thousands of times, he always did so deliberately and with watchful eyes. I never remember him bumping into the large railroad ties bordering the driveway like I always did. The compass bolted down to the dashboard danced to the tune of, "You can bring Rosie with the turned up nosie, but don't bring Lulu." (or something like that) That song was one of grandpa's classic tunes that came straight from his personal play list along with his soft humming, mellow whistling and goofy rhymes. As a kid, I thought he was singing songs he made up. Maybe he was.
  
• My grandpa was the best whistler to walk the earth.
  And he had a great "Yo-da-ho-lady-hoo."
  The whistling, the songs and the rhymes were part of the larger than life presence he had when I was a little boy.
  
• When I hear the sound of a reclining chair stretching back after the foot rest is ejected (snap, snap, snap, snap, snap until the final reclining summit was reached and a slight poom when the chair came to its stretched out resting point), it takes me back to the den at 419 Baldie Street. Even more vivid is that sound when the foot rest came crashing down after one of grandpa's cat naps. By the time I knew grandpa, that recliner was home. The sound is fondly seared into my memory and my hope is that anyone reading this can hear that chair now.
  
• Salt. You name it and salt was added to just about everything on his plate. Watermelon. Apples. Tomato slices. Salad. Did grandpa eat sliced raw onions with salt occasionally?
  
• Playing catch at 518 N. King Street was a daily ritual in the summer. My mom had a canon for an arm and Ryan is twice the athlete I am. That fact combined with Ryan being three years older resulted in unjust games of "burnout" that cruelly stung my glove hand. But the one single catch I remember most affectionately took place in the backyard of the 4-1-9 with grandpa. I was probably 10 years old and at the time and I thought it kind of awkward that the "old man" wanted to toss the ball with me. After all, I was the starting pitcher for my little league team at the time with a refined "in-season" arm. Nothing in particular about our 15-minute catch stands out -- no heart to heart conversation or laughs. It was likely that grandpa just asked about my latest sports conquest or found some indirect method to remind me not to be such a pain to my mother and the people around me. He had a way, without directly getting after me, of making sure I knew that he knew what was going on. One of the many gifts he gave me.
  
• As a boy, my self-esteem was safe with my ball glove. More than my coaches, playing team sports or eventually excelling in school, my mom and the "Balice pieces" led by grandpa and grandma were the emotional safety net that kept my world together. Knowing that my grandparents had high expectations of me had a significant impact on my life and still does today. And from time to time without prompting, their interest in me and the way they expressed love would catch me off-guard . . . like when grandpa played catch with me in the backyard.
  
• One winter grandpa Balice coached my sixth grade basketball team at SSPP for a game. The coach, Phil Agostini, could not make the game due to some other commitment and he had asked Grandpa to fill in. (Phil Agostini would later tell me how important Grandpa Balice was in his life when Phil was a boy). I do not remember much from the game other than sitting in our little locker room at half-time with grandpa standing in front of the window talking to us. I do not remember what he said. Twenty two years later, I remember that he was gentle and simple in his instruction though. Not a lot of animation. On the bench, he sat the entire game and I think he just substituted players in and out and probably said, "Good job" when we came off the floor.
  
• Over the next five years grandpa went to several of my games and I vividly remember him setting up his lawn chair to watch my Little league ball games. Seared into my memory is grandpa sitting by himself in the sun along the third baseline near the foul pole wearing a ball cap (probably his Ionia Free Fair hat) when I was probably 12 years old. He never really said much to me about the games afterward, but I always noticed that he was there. Always. (And grandma would cut out all of those Sentinel Standard news briefs from my SSPP basketball games. For me it was nice to know that she cared and paid attention. She went to games once in a while.)
  
• It was eerie to me then and even now as I recall a bitter January day when I was inside grandpa and grandmas house while they were away in Florida for the winter. Vacant of the usual activity and the warm sense of comfort that came with the revolving door of people coming in the squeaky back door, I was happy when we left. I am not sure what I was doing at their house with my mom that day, but it was mildly dreary. That cold visit, the empty feeling and absence of life, was a stark contrast to how much I enjoyed the feeling of being "home" and the comfort that came with a big family and our tight gatherings in the Balice castle. When grandpa and grandma returned from Florida, the house defrosted.
  
• To this day, I am still grateful that watermelon never took root in my tummy like grandpa said it would after I accidentally swallowed a seed.