Candy

He was a bear of a man.  Stout and furry.  Slightly cuddly.   Glasses.  Short white gray hair.  Face clean shaven whenever he was in public.  He wore collared 3 button shirts and khakis or for his every day uniform; and suits to worship.  I say worship instead of Church because it wasn’t Church.  It was call the “Kingdom Hall” and it looked more like a convention hall than a church. Instead of a large crucifix there was a mural of Paradise on Earth: Lions laying with lambs, all of the animals living in harmony with the humans.  The humans: men and women of assorted races and shades, smiling and happy.

My grandfather was an elder in his  Jehovah Witnesses congregation.  This fact would scare away a lot of readers.  This religion is known for being the most aggressive in conversion, the most judgmental of sins and morals.  But this was not the man I knew.  Above all he was a kind gentle soul.  I had never heard him raise his voice in anger or frustration.  In fact, I had never heard him say a bad word about anyone, sinner or not.  He did not judge those who were different or believed different than he did, he merely accepted them as who they were.  He was , by all accounts, the kind of Christian (or person) they say we are suppose to be.  Giving, accepting, kind, humble and funny.  Whether you had accepted the “Truth” (what the JW called their doctrine) or not, he still treated you with respect and kindness.  It was God’s decision to judge in the end, not his.

As an elder, he would have to get up in front of the congregation and give “speeches”.  That's what they called them.  “Talks” or “Speeches” not sermons or benedictions.  And certainly they would reference the Bible.  Alot.  In fact you needed a Bible in your hand to follow along.  In the middle of a sentence, you would be directed to a passage … and then another, and another.  There was the constant hiss of pages being shuffled and flipped.  There is a very distinct sound that Bible pages make when they are turned (try it, reader, if you have a Bible nearby).  It's not like regular book pages - not really.  Bibles are made usually of woodfree uncoated paper, sometimes a composite  with linen or cotton to increase its strength.  There were several elders in the congregation, and in one service several of them would get up and give their talk for the day.  My grandfather’s bible was full of highlights and underlines, and notes in the margins.  And he gave the best “talks”.  Entertaining.  Funny.  Self-effacing almost self-deprecating. Teasing of my grandmother, mentioning of my father or I if we happen to be there.  But always, always a hit.  People after his sermons would come up to him, and to us, and rave about how poignant and funny it was.  Just oozing with praise of my grandfather.

The funny thing is - my grandfather never finished his schooling.  Which was common back then.  He went straight into the service when he was of age.  Fought in one of the big wars.  Lost a portion of his finger in a artillery mishap.  I have the  Purple Heart Medal of Honor to prove it.  He was not an educated man.  He was not well read.  He could fix anything you could give him, and make up some masterful gadgets to get jobs done around the house.  He excelled in tinkering in a masterful expert level way.  He was a working man.  Worked in a warehouse or factory most of his life; blue collar worker through and through.  Sure, he worked his way up to supervisor or foreman, of course he did.  But he was not a learned man.  In fact, I found out much later in my life, he could barely read or write.  But.  In came the “Truth”, in came the Witnesses and Bible study and …. My grandfather taught himself.  He improved  himself for that very cause, for the “Truth”.  And he became an elder, and come to read the verses like a scholar, and wrote sermons that would humble the best orators.  My grandfather.

And the children.  The children!!  They loved Brother Ardito.  (thats what they call eachother, Brothers and Sisters).  They ran to him.  They swarmed him.  Crowding around his legs.  He would tease them, hug them, love them.  And always … always had candy in his pocket.  In fact, his pockets were full of candy.  First it was penny candy - when there still was penny candy.  Mary Janes, Fireballs, those caramel things with the white centers (do they have a name???) wrapped hard candy, gum, Bit-o-Honey ... and then when the price of Penny Candy went up to over a penny he switched to LifeSavers.  And Mentos.  Mostly Mint Mentos if I remember correctly.  And sugar free mint LifeSavers.  Both of which probably helped his cause too.  With all those people coming up to him after his sermons, it would be nice to have fresh breath.

But I know with all my heart that those children were NOT coming to him, drawn to him like the Pied Piper because of his pockets full of candy.  They were drawn to him because he was like Santa Claus , in a world that didn’t allow Santa Claus.  Sure he had a bit of a belly.  He was joyful and friendly.  He was generous and kind.  He laughed and he smiled.  He was hope and fun in their regimented life.  He celebrated their youth and vibrancy and returned it with a elder’s wisdom and love of life.  I almost thought it was coincidence that he always had an extra piece of candy for whichever little kid came to him.  Until I stumbled upon his stash.

He had a little corner of a built in cabinet that he kept paper and pencils and assorted items, AND his candy.  What I found were packages and packages of Mentos and  LifeSavers.  It was like discovering Santa’s toyshop.  “Ooooohhh that’s where it comes from.”

I know I have a romanticized memory of my grandfather.  But I think that’s quite ok.  I know he wasn’t perfect.  To hear my grandmother say it, “He was not a saint.”  (although she was bat shit crazy so I’m not sure if I would take her word for it anyway.)  But we all need heroes.  And I’m fine with him as one of mine.