Elizabeth Ziegler
The story goes that when Bob realized he was going to be a grandfather he wanted to be called “Grandfather”. Unfortunately for him that never came to pass because his first grandchild (me) decided to call him, of all things, Bobby. The name stuck and he forever became Bobby, grandfather to 4 excellent grandchildren.
I am 44 years old this week. I know how blessed I’ve been to know not only all of my grandparents but 3 of 4 of my great-grandparents. I will miss him terribly, but I can't help but smile when I think about him taking Nanny (Marian) into his arms and sweeping her across the dance floor. I can hear him telling her “I’ve got new moves!”
He had a whistle that would break your eardrums and hands that could crack your spine. He used those strong hands to make wood furniture, sling baseballs and on occasion, grip my shoulders, bringing me to my knees with the strength of them. This is perhaps the reason I am an excellent massage therapist, which leads me to a memory I’d like to share.
When he had his first taste of sciatic pain, I offered to treat him. Bobby was game to try but the offer came with a warning. This was my grandfather folks, a devout Catholic and although humorous, he was never raunchy. I had to tell him that in order to relieve the pain I had to… work on his glutes. I distinctly recall using the technical terms because I didn't want to seem unprofessional by saying “I have to touch your butt”. I waited for his answer, unsure what he would say. His expression revealed nothing. I may have started to sweat. To this day his reply will go down in history as one of the most hilarious and unexpected things I’ve ever heard him say.
He looked at me, with those big blue eyes and shrugged. “Well, I always thought I had a nice ass.”
Boy, did I laugh!
Baseball. One of his greatest loves and something I got to share with him first hand when I joined a softball league as a teen. Being a teenage girl must have been a real experience for Bobby to deal with. I don't think he knew what to do with me but when I started softball we finally had something in common.
My hand would sting and ring after a round of tossing the ball. And nothing made me happier or him prouder than when I returned the favor. His face would light up as he took his hand out of the glove and shook it off. “That was a zinger, Elizabeth!”
I saw that same delight in his eyes when my cousin Brennen, at a mere 3 years old (maybe 4), hit a wiffle ball dead-shot down the lawn one spring afternoon, and then without hesitation started running around the “bases”. There was pride in his appraisal of Brennen, his only grandson. A “That's my boy!” kind of feeling.
Dancing and Love. I remember my grandparents dancing, at parties and celebrations. Spontaneously in the kitchen to music played through large speakers he built himself. Later in life he really got the bug, and for several years his dance card at the Century Village was FULL. It brought him great joy, and sometimes frustration. Bless his soul, Bobby had no idea how to handle the modern woman. It was my privilege to offer him advice and perspective, which he very much appreciated. And so did I. Because I got to see a side of him that was vulnerable in it's sweetness. It was such a special time, I'll never forget it.
I will treasure our conversations and our dances. The songs and laughter. The memories.