My Kingdom for a Freezer full of Pistachios

My grandfather, like most grandfathers, was and interesting guy. He was born in 1902, which means he lived through the depression and carried it with him the rest of his life. He saved everything. He had coffee cans full of the rubber bands that came on the newspapers. He had 30 years worth of paper grocery bags neatly stacked in his workshop. In his retirement he improved his already green thumb, and he eventually got his picture in the paper once for growing some obnoxiously large plant in his backyard. (No, it wasn’t a mug shot for growing pot.)

When I went to college my parents insisted that I would appreciate it more If I paid for it myself. I wish they’d considered how much I would have appreciated not having student loans afterwards, but that ship has sailed. My parents wanted me to go to a religious school close by. That wasn’t happening. Oh I was still very religious then, but the school they wanted me to go to wasn’t exactly known for academic rigor. The college I did choose, though more expensive, was in the town where my Grandfather grew up. His father is buried there while all the rest of the family plots are in a completely different county.

As the time came near for me to make the final decision on schools, the word got out that I didn’t have enough money to afford the school of my choice. This secretly pleased my parents of course, but it was my Grandfather who came to the rescue. The year before there had been this freak hailstorm that hit my home town. The golf ball size hail had done serious damage across town, and my Granddad’s insurance had paid him a couple thousand dollars, which Granddad hid in a coffee can somewhere and never spent. He gave me that money to help pay for my first year of school. He had three sons, eleven grandchildren, and by then half a dozen great grand children. I was the only one he ever helped pay for college. It was a big “don’t mention this to anyone else” kind of thing. Somehow those things always manage to get out.

Over the next year my Grandfather really started to deteriorate. His mind wasn’t making the solid decisions it was renowned for. He started doing really weird stuff, like buying things in bulk that don’t need to be bought in bulk. He had seven of those little urinals truck drivers use. There were dozens of copies of a single book. In the end we found his outdoor freezer was full to the brim with pistachios, but his buying habits weren’t the only thing that went awry. Months after his death, I was told that there was something he kept saying during that period. Over and over, to virtually everyone who came to visit.

“Tell Sylow there’s no more money.”

It may not actually be the case, but I have this feeling that the last time I actually spoke to my Grandfather was the day he gave me that money. I went off and became a freshman in college, and he never heard from me again. He was deeply religious, so I sometimes feel a little guilty that I probably didn’t turn out the way he would have preferred. But even more so, I feel guilty for taking his money. I should have done more. I should have said thank you by calling every month, or sending him letters and cards, but I didn’t do that. I’m sure he’s over it by now. I’m just not sure that I’m over it.

On the up-side, I don't think anyone in the family can eat pistachios without thinking about Grandad.