A camera hung around his neck and a large case drooped over his shoulder as my grandfather entered our duplex. The grandkids have always affectionately called him “Grandy,” but for the past few years I have referred to him only as “K.O.”—for Karl Owsly. His dear wife, “Granny,” followed closely behind him. After the customary hug and kiss greeting, she informed us of the pictures of our mailbox and front yard that K.O. had just taken. As she rattled off an apology for forcing Janet to cook dinner for them, she scanned the room in search of the next picture.
“Karl, there’s that cross-stitch picture that Edith made them for their wedding…get a picture of it.” K.O. licked his lips (as he has the habit of doing every three breaths) and snapped away. The next stop on our photo safari was the bedroom and Granny instantly eyed the quilt she had made for us. K.O. snapped a picture of it just as the order to do so was leaving her mouth. Her fingers traced a stitch on the quilt and she sighed as she explained how she had made a mistake on one of the seams. It amazed me that she continued to quilt with hands that had been crippled by arthritis.
Having run out of rooms to photograph, the ladies headed for the kitchen to discuss the pros and cons of frozen lima beans and K.O. and I sat down in the living room and he began to talk. There is something very special in the conversations I have with him now. We are both going through transitions in our lives and there is a lot on our minds. Whenever he talks, there is something inside of me that hangs on to every word he says.
There is a poem by Erma Bombeck taped on the inside of my Bible about the things that she would do differently if she had the chance to live her life over again. The verse that always seems to stay with me is the one about how she wished she had listened more to her grandfather ramble on about his youth. Well, I doubt I’ll ever have that same regret because I cherish every word that comes out of K.O.’s mouth.
He told me a lot of things that afternoon. Some of the stories I had heard before, and some were being told in a slightly different way. He told me about how my dad and Granny’s father used to argue over whether or not the South had won the Civil War. He told me about his invalid father and how he and his brothers had been given the task of supporting the family at an early age. I listened in amazement as he told me what his monthly pay was at his first job, and how Granny had been so excited when they moved to Ohio and had more money to buy groceries. I had heard most of the stories before, but this time there was something different in his voice. He emphasized certain points very carefully, as if he were telling the stories for the last time and wanted me to get every detail straight.
As he spoke to me that afternoon, I just sat there trying to soak up every last word. And then I asked about his camera. He told me he had gone through several rolls of film in the past few weeks on my wedding, his grandchildren, and the rest of the family. He told me that he probably wouldn’t be around much longer and he wanted pictures of everything. And then he began to teach me a lesson that I will never forget.
In words very similar to these, he said, “Steve, the thing that has made me the happiest in life is to feel that I am a productive person, that I am needed by someone for whatever reason. When I was young, I felt like the burdens of my family were on my shoulders and I was needed. As an adult, I worked for Goodyear and people depended on me. I have always been involved with the church, and I feel like at times I have made a difference. And ever since I have been retired, the need to be needed has been one of the driving forces in my life.” He licked his lips and went on. “To feel that I am doing something positive for my family means more to me than anything in the world—it’s what keeps me going. And I know that before long, I’ll be leaving this world to move on to a better place.”
As tears began to form in my eyes, he looked down at his camera and said, “Yea, Steve, memories are all we have anymore.” There was a silence in the air that was deafening. He looked deep into my eyes and said, “As long as these pictures are around, I hope you kids will remember Granny and me and all the fun times you had with us.”
There were so many things I wanted to say, but I just couldn’t form the words in my mouth. I wanted to thank him for all the talks we had had and all the encouragement he had given me for as long as I can remember. He has always been such an inspiration to me and the thought of him no longer being around was tearing me apart.
After a few minutes of silence, our wives called us for dinner and we were broken from our trance. The rest of the evening was filled with the usual conversations, but my mind was in a different place. After dinner, K.O. took a few more pictures and then we said our good-byes.
I believe my grandparents have several years of life left in them. And I’m sure there’ll be more lessons learned. And I suppose I’ll hear some of K.O.’s favorite old stories about my dad a time or two more.
But, one of these days, they will be gone. As much as that realization hurts, I can’t deny it. But as far as I’m concerned, my grandfather has nothing to worry about because that is when his most productive years will begin. Because every time I hear his name, or look at the gold watch that Goodyear gave him for 25 years of service, or see a picture of him, it will all come back to me. I will remember all of the fun times we had together playing miniature golf in Ohio, weathering a snowstorm in New Jersey at Christmas, and posing for a picture at my wedding. I’ll remember all of the lessons that he has taught me, and all of our experiences together will come to life again…and memories will be all that I need.
by Steve Johnson, June 4, 1988
