Ordinary greatness & remembering Grandpa

An all-day all-night headache, plus having to get up for work at 4:30am doesn't leave a lot of time for sleeping...but it leaves lots of time for thinking. With the annoyingly persistent throbbing of my head, and the fear of sleeping through my alarm and missing my shift (as I thought I had done yesterday morning until I realized that I had my schedule wrong and my early morning shift is actually THIS morning. I tell you, nothing gets you shaking in your jammies faster than the thought of "I am an HOUR LATE FOR WORK!!!"), it's hard to divert my thoughts. But in the wee small hours of the morning, amidst the pain & anxiety, my mind eventually made it's way to a more pleasant, yet bittersweet thought. 

Today, December 7th, would have been my Grandpa Red's 93rd birthday. He passed away suddenly about seven years ago, and while I miss him throughout the year, it is always at the holiday time that I miss him especially.

Recently, I've been obsessing over reading the works of Brene Brown, and one of the topics she writes about is "Celebrating the Ordinary and Uncool." In her book, "I Thought It Was Just Me," Dr. Brown writes, 

"In our culture, the fear and shame of being ordinary is very real...We seem to measure the value of people's contributions (and sometimes their entire lives) by their level of public recognition. In other words, worth is measured by fame and fortune.
"Our culture is quick to dismiss quiet, ordinary, hardworking men and women. In many instances, we equate ordinary with boring or, even more dangerous, ordinary has become synonymous with meaningless."

My grandfather was proof that an "ordinary" life is NOT boring, and definitely NOT meaningless. In his quiet way, he taught me what's most important in life, and what is the most meaningful. Yet in the world's measure of greatness by how many recognitions, awards, and "Likes" we get on Facebook, my grandfather wouldn't have made the cut.  If he were alive today, how many "Likes" would my grandpa's posts have gotten on Facebook? Probably not very many (assuming he could figure out how to navigate Facebook. He had to have my dad come to "color code" how to use a CD player - which I think is totally fine, btw). However my grandpa was one of the greatest men I'll ever know.

As I think back over all of the simple, ordinary memories I have with him, they are among the ones that mean the most to me in my life: 

• Taking me shopping for Christmases and birthdays. No matter how old I got, he would always ask me if I wanted to go shopping to pick out my gifts. And he was so patient as I meandered from store to store. It is a very patient man that will not only go shopping with a woman, but suggest they go shopping. Our shopping trips would always include a lunch date, too. The lunches were never fancy, but to this day, our dates to McDonald's and Friendly's go down in history as some of my favorite dining-out memories.

• Greeting cards. During one of our shopping trips, I remember stopping in a greeting card shop so that he could pick out a card for someone. We must've spent half an hour and he intently searched, read and deliberated over a card that expressed exactly what was in his heart. Throughout my life I had received dozens of cards from him, and the only thing he ever wrote in them was "Love, Grandpa" with lots of X's and O's. But that day in the card shop I realized that the words provided by the greeting card company weren't just generic words to my grandfather - they were exactly what he wanted to express. After he died,  I remember looking through a scrapbook of all of the cards he'd given to my grandmother - from their courtship, throughout their marriage. Cards that were faded and wearing with age, however to look through them and re-read them was to witness their timeless love.

• Laughing at "Home Alone." No matter how many times he watched it, Grandpa would laugh so hard at the slapstick humor. Every time I watch it, I am reminded of him (and the joy from the simple humor of watching someone get a paint can in the face).

• The Baby Whisperer. My grandfather loved babies - he loved to hold them and walk with them. I think he's the source of the "Baby Whisperer" genes that occasionally show up in my family. Something about the way he walked them would calm them and put them to sleep. Seeing how loving my grandpa was with babies made me wish that I was a 19 year old bride - just so that my babies could've been walked to sleep by him. 

Just so many warm memories....spending time with him after my parents separated, watching him tearfully kiss my grandmother's forehead to say goodbye when she passed away, witnessing how much he loved family and loved life.

My grandfather was one of those people that I knew loved me just because. Not for anything I did or earned, but just because I was his granddaughter. I never had to accomplish any great feat to earn his love - no matter what, I knew that he loved me and was proud of me, as he was of all of his grandchildren and his family. 

Since it's Christmastime, the Muppet Christmas Carol is in my head and playing on my iPod (as usual). One of the songs in the film include these lyrics: 

The love we found we carry with us, so we're never quite alone.

Whenever life gets me down, or feels like it's at its darkest, my grandfather's love is something that I carry with me, helping me to feel that I'm not alone. 

There's another song from that movie that goes, "and if you need to know the measure of a man, you simply count his friends." I don't think the lyrics are referring to the "Friends" on Facebook or in your Google Plus circles, or your networks on Linkedin. It's not people that you haven't spoken to in years, but true friends - people who know the real you, and love and respect you for it. And these "friends" can include those you're related to - your family. By this standard, my grandfather was one of the greatest men I'll ever know. His sweet, meaningful, ordinary life is one that I hope to emulate, that I can leave as loving a legacy as he has left behind.

Happy birthday, Grandpa. I miss you.