Today would have been my grandpa's 108th birthday. He died in 1990, but my memories of him are vivid. He was already retired when I was born, so he spent lots of time with me during my childhood. I was lucky enough to live right next door to him for the first 10 years of my life, and even luckier that he really liked to tell stories. I'd sit on the swing in our backyard for hours, while he patiently pushed the swing, telling stories of his own childhood and the war.
I credit him for my love of storytelling - and for my love of the smell of oil stain.
Dark brown oil stain, that’s what my grandpa used on pretty much everything. Him and my grandma had a huge backyard with an old shed in it - of course the shed was painted with brown oil stain. Next to the shed was a whole row of large wooden boxes, built to be rabbit cages, and a big ol’ utility box for all his garden utensils - and yes, all of those items were brown as well.
My grandpa was a very kind man. When he wasn't busy painting various surfaces with that brown oil stain (which had to be repeated every year), he would tell me stories about his childhood and about the war.
He grew up in a part of Germany that is now Czechoslovakia; his stories were about the witch, who lived in his hometown, and about all his childhood adventures. About deep forests and mythical creatures, and bitter cold winters. About pranks and skipping school and swimming in creeks. It was all pretty magical to me.
The stories about the war were less magical, but just as captivating. I can’t even tell you how many times I asked him to tell the story about how he got shot in the head during the war. So he told me about the gruesome battles and surprising camaraderie, and how we was finally captured by the Russians after he caught a stray bullet. He thought he was really lucky, despite being a Russian POW for two years, because the bullet had only grazed his head. When he was finished with his story, he would always let me feel the dip in his skull.
I was a young adult when I last felt the dip in his skull, and I still hadn't tired of his stories.
Happy Birthday, Grandpa!
