Grandpa scared me as a child. I grew up in a houseful of women, and men in general were questionable to my young mind. Not only was Grandpa a man, he was a tall, tough man. He had leathery brown skin and was certainly the first person I’d ever met who had a real tattoo, old and green on his forearm. He made jokes about eating my thumb if I kept sucking it, and would pin me down and tickle me until I was really a little afraid. He smelled always of forbidden cigarette smoke, and would lie on the couch and watch news while we had to troop off to Grandma’s church.
I remember the day I stopped being afraid of Grandpa. We were staying at my grandparents house during a move, and one of the new little girls on the block had hurt my feelings. I curled up in a ball to cry on the porch, free at five years old to collapse over a child’s snub. Grandpa came home and asked me what was wrong, but I was sure the world was coming to an end and refused to answer him. After making sure I wasn’t physically hurt, Grandpa picked me up and pushed me into the room I was sharing with my sisters. He shouted, “I love you to death, but you can’t scare me like that!”
Although I could have been more scared of Grandpa then, what I heard was that he loved me. I saw him differently then. I saw his joy when he heard me laugh. I heard his concern when he cajoled me to stop sucking my thumb. The smell of cigarettes took on an affectionate meaning, and to this day I can’t be offended by their scent. I cried with him when he was finally baptized in Grandma’s church. I felt differently about Grandpa, but it wasn’t because he stopped being intimidating. This isn’t a story about how I realized he had a softer side. I stopped being afraid of Grandpa because I realized that tall, tough man was on my side.