I’m reposting this journal entry in memory of you.
I wrote this ten years ago in 2016, after an evening spent washing my car — a chore that’s always brought you with it. Reading it back now, I wouldn't change a word. Life has kept changing and moving since then, but you never did. That was always your gift.
I'll miss you, Grandpa, but I'm grateful to have your sayings in my head and memories with me, always, and for what you ingrained in me long before I could name it: that hard work and discipline aren't just how you keep the car clean; they're how you build a life. And in case you're wondering up there…
I'm still working hard, and my car's running well.
pt. i
Tonight, as I washed my car, memories came of Toft's chocolate ice cream (your daily evening ritual), soap suds in a blue bucket, toothbrushes for cleaning the car tires, and you.
You’ll never know how much it pleases me that every time we talk, you ask me the same two questions:
"Still working hard?"
"Is the car running well?"
These two questions have always been your way of checking in on me since I moved away after high school.
"A man's car will tell you a lot about a man," you'd always say.
For you, life is summed up in whether the garden's watered, the car’s dried after its evening wash, and if the day's work was hard and finished. If the answer was yes to all the above, it was a good day in your world. And if my answers were the same, in your eyes, life is good for me, too.
"Is the car running well?"
“You still working hard?"
"Yes, Grandpa."
“Good."
"It's good to hear you’re doing well."
It's the infamous two-question life assessment of the oldest, frailest, hell-of-the-hardest-working man I know, and I couldn't love you more for it.
I'm proud to have your blood in me. I'm proud to work hard, like you. And I'm proud every time I clean my car, because I know it makes you proud.
Your routines, traits, and habits are all so simple, and so, you. I appreciate and find comfort in them.
Maybe, it's because so much feels like it's changing around me. My friends are continually moving away, my roommates and best friends are getting married and having kids, my housing situation changes like the seasons, and everything feels unsettled—like it will change and eventually leave and pass.
But while everything and everyone comes, goes, and changes, I can always count on your favorite two questions, a phone call away, to be the same, no matter what.
It's pleasing having someone who remains steadfast, someone who found who they were and never wavered. Truth embodied is rare in people.
You've always been a source of stability, grit, and loyalty amidst an ever-fleeting, moving world.
pt. ii
Growing up, our conversations never strayed far from how my baseball season was going, or of you reminding me that my jump shot’s in need of more work and that I should be in the driveway shooting more.
You were always a pleasure to have at my baseball games.
The way you would subtly mutter at the best times: “That coach of yours is an idiot. He doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing.”
“Pete!”
It was Grandma.
“Sh! Stop it!"
"He can hear you,” she would then whisper.
But you knew he could hear. That was the goal.
The timing. The mutter. Right when he would step within earshot.
And then it would come. The rise.
The smile.
The sheer pleasure.
Poor Grandma.
I’ve seen that smile many times.
Like when you rave about your "glory days" on the high school football team.
“When I was playing football in high school, I was untouchable," you’d remind my cousins, siblings, and me.
“And I only weighed 137 pounds!”
But before we could give you the look of: “...only 137 pounds?" you’d butt in:
“But they couldn’t catch me!”
"I’m sure, Grandpa. I’m sure they couldn’t."
And then you would walk away, smiling. Muttering under your breath. Reminiscing.
“The only thing that could tackle me was the wind."
And then it would rise again.
The corners of your lips.
The smile, over the crowd in your head. The smile over my mom, grandma, and coach. The smile over your favorite crowd of all:
Yourself.
The smile always gave away your sense of triumph—of feeling uncontained.
It was in your eyes, and it was beautiful to see it come back: the feeling of being untouchable and invincible, the feeling of no one being able to tackle you, once again.
I’ve seen you walk away with that smile more times than I can count.
It never gets old.
/////
pt iii.
Of all the memories I have with you, my favorite times were washing mom's car together on summer nights, after dinner.
Even to this day, when my car’s dirty, I still hear you 3,000 miles away:
“When you gonna clean that thing?”
Every time we pulled in the driveway of your condo, I knew it was coming:
“Beth."
This is my mom's name.
"You need to sweep your rugs... when was the last time you waxed the car?"
"Joshua," you'd say with your slight Italian accent.
“Go inside and grab the paper towels. And the Windex."
Ten minutes later, after the windows were cleaned, and the car was washed from top to bottom, I’d find myself on my hands and knees, following your orders, scrubbing the tires with a toothbrush.
After an hour and a half of labor, we'd find the car crisp and clean from head to toe.
After our cleaning sessions ended came my favorite part:
“Want to go to Toft’s and get ice cream?"
It was as predictable as the toothbrush.
If Tommy Boy was Sandusky, Ohio's claim to fame, Toft's Ice Cream was its local legend. When it comes to flavors, price, and portion size, no one beats it.
We may not have beaches, mountains, and blistering sights in Ohio, but we can teach the world a few things about small town ice cream.
You would order chocolate or peach every time.
Unless we went to Pied Piper. Then it was orange sherbet and vanilla twist.
If anything, you were simple and consistent. Every morning you read the paper, go in to work for a couple of hours, come home to water Grandma's flowers, and then, after dinner, wash your car. And lastly, sit down to watch the Indians game with a small scoop of peach or chocolate ice cream in hand. Every day and every time we came to visit, even now when I call to check in, everything is still the same.
It's pleasing being around people who never change.
In the end, our shared experiences, what I did with you, even though it was usually in silence—it was intimately knowing you. It was presence, above words. Loyalty, unspoken. Family, above everything else. And now, because of you, every day as I go into work or whenever I wash my car- you are there with me.
Because of you, even the mundane:
a toothbrush in a garage,
a scoop of peach ice cream,
even my faded car hood, has meaning.
(P.S. You’d kill me if you saw the paint fading on the hood of my Honda Civic right now.
It's bad.
Like, really bad.)
Secretly, it gives me joy because it keeps your voice and our memories together fresh in my head.
You with me means more than any new car hood that I could ever buy.
People, cars, places, home- everything has changed in my life.
Everything, but you.
Never stop running from that wind, Grandpa.
