Grandpa Mac: My Favorite Pal

I have always been my Grandpa Mac’s “favorite pal”; yes, his favorite, despite the fact that grandparents are supposed to never have favorites.  My Grandpa and Grandma McDonald, also known as Grandpa and Grandma Mac to my brothers and me, are my dad’s parents and live in Dayton, Ohio.  Every year, my family travels to Ohio at Christmas to visit our relatives, including my grandparents.  When I was little, I remember pulling up to my grandparents’ house, watching the window for any sign of a dancing shadow in the illuminated windows of the brick house. Each year, I hurried to unfasten my seatbelt and elbowed past my older brother to open the sliding car door.  As I ran up the stone path that led to the mahogany door, my brother pushed past me, arriving at the door first and celebrating his triumph by ringing the doorbell.  But before the first chime even rang, my Grandpa Mac would swing open the door and greet my family with a warm “Howdy”.  One by one we walked into the foyer.  My Grandpa Mac always greeted us in the same order: my brother(s) first, my parents second, and me last.  When my turn arrived he boomed in a loud, confident voice, “There’s my favorite pal!” enveloping me in a strong, affectionate hug.    Some of my earliest recollections involve time spent with my Grandpa Mac, my favorite relative and my “favorite pal”.

When I was little, my Grandpa Mac was truly a pal.  While we were visiting, he would sit down and eat breakfast with me every morning.  As he ate his bowl of Wheaties, I ate my smaller bowl of Cheerios; if my parents were not around, he would mischievously add a spoon of sugar to the bland Cheerios.  When my parents walked in to check on me, he would give me a playful wink and continue eating, commenting on how healthy my breakfast was.  Late at night, my Grandpa would sit in his large blue arm chair, eating salted peanuts and watching Fox News.  No one was allowed to sit in that chair except my Grandpa Mac, an unspoken rule in the house; however, he would let me climb onto his lap and watch the news with him, slipping me a salted peanut every commercial break. 

Hung throughout the old house were pictures of my Grandpa from service during World War II.  After seeing the photographs for so many years, these pictures have been ingrained in my memory: the confident pilot standing with his team, the charismatic youth smiling mischievously at the camera, the intelligent solider glancing over maps by the wing of his aircraft.  My parents always told me that my Grandpa Mac was a brave man who flew airplanes during war, but these words meant nothing to me.  To me, my Grandpa was a friend, a partner in crime; the Grandpa Mac I knew was not the faded photograph on a wall.  He was the proud, independent man trimming the hedges and watering the perfectly manicured lawn.  Over the years, I have learned more about his heroism and service; and while I am proud of his past, I value his presence more than his medals and photographs from the past.  

Last Christmas, my family and I embarked on our yearly trip to Ohio; but instead of pulling into the driveway of my grandparents’ house, we pulled into the parking lot of “Friendship Village: The Friendliest Place on Earth”.  Three years ago, much to the dismay of my Grandpa Mac, my grandparents sold their three story house and moved into this assisted living center.  As we walked up the sidewalk to the front entrance, we saw my Grandpa Mac sitting patiently on a bench waiting for us to arrive, his thin body wrapped in a scarf and his balding head covered by a bowler hat.  After greeting both my brothers and my parents he turned to me, opened his arms, and greeted his “favorite pal”. 

Even though he had to use a walker and carry an oxygen tank, my Grandfather led the way up to the apartment, walking beside me every step of the way.  Once we reached his apartment, he sat down in his blue arm chair to rest, exhausted from the short journey.  After saying hello to my Grandma Mac, I sat next to my Grandpa Mac as he drifted off to sleep.  As he slept, I glanced through his photo albums which contained his pictures from his service during World War II.  When he awoke, he looked through the photographs with me, retelling humorous antidotes about his friends and escapades during the war.  His arthritic hands struggled to turn the pages and he strained to make out the details of the pictures through his wide rimmed glasses.  Every five minutes, his oxygen machine would kick on with a hiss, causing him to jump as fresh air was forced through his nose.  Yet despite his physical aging, his voice remained confident and strong.  The night we left, we visited my grandparents one last time to say our goodbyes.  After he said goodbye to my brothers, my mom, and my dad, he turned to me, beckoning his “favorite pal” to hug him goodbye.  As I gingerly bent down to hug my Grandpa Mac, he patted my face, kissed my cheek, and told me how much he would miss his favorite pal.

My Grandpa Mac has always been my favorite relative, my hero, and my friend.  Some of my earliest memories are from spending time with him, whether it was attending a basketball game he ushered or attending Christmas Eve candlelight mass at midnight.  Over the years, I have learned about his military history and his heroism during World War II.  My Grandpa Mac was a pilot during the war, one of the first pilots to fly over Hiroshima after the atomic bomb was dropped to take pictures of the aftermath.  He has countless photo albums containing letters, pictures, and articles which are meant to reveal his heroism and success, yet he is never the person to bring these accolades up.  My Grandpa Mac is a humble hero, who values love over medals.  As he has grown older and been forced into a life of dependency, he struggles to retain his autonomy and independent spirit, a struggle I respect and admire.  He refuses to ride a motorized wheelchair, choosing instead to painfully walk with the aid of a walker; he keeps a bottle of brandy hidden in the cupboard (referring to it as “special medicine”) against the orders of his doctors.  During our visit last Christmas, my Grandpa would slip me pieces of candy, giving me his special wink, just as he did years ago at the breakfast table.  My Grandpa Mac has always been, and will forever be my “favorite pal”; nothing, not even time, can change that.