Something new was going to happen. Port Aransas was like living on a different planet. Certain lines never seemed like they could intersect. That began to change in 1985. Last February, my Grandmother and sister came down for a visit, which led Brooke to come back a month later to live here. I saw that as an isolated incident. A fantastic one.
My father told me one day that my Grandfather (his ex-father-in-law) was coming down for a visit, and I would need to pick him up at the airport. Brooke and I drove to Corpus Christi airport in the Dodge to pick him up. It was great to see him. We took him back through Corpus on SPID (South Padre Island Drive), a highway system that ran through the city and headed out to the islands via Flour Bluff. I recall him being impressed with how fast the Dodge could go from 0 to 60 to keep up with the fast-moving traffic in the city.
There are moments in your life that you will remember forever. I did not think that I would ever see my father and grandfather in the same place ever again. So it was an incredible treat to see them face-to-face once again. Their history was an interesting one. Their respective intellectual arsenals could do nothing but meet. As a child, I could not understand the psychological sparring match that would ensue. For me, they were an endless stream of words that would drone on and on. My 10 or fewer-year-old brain did not notice that their conversations were more like a test of wills, spoken calmly yet wrestling for dominance.
I cannot say for sure, but looking back, the conversations must have led my Grandfather to take shots at my father in his words. This was not because my Grandfather did not like him, I think it was more that he admired him, but was disappointed in him. He knew my father could be anything, yet he had his demons, and alcohol was the big one. I do not think that anger really came from his view of my father and his potential being wasted in my Grandfather's opinion. I think the drunkenness itself harkened back to an extremely frustrating period of my Grandfather's life. He watched this take his wife away from him, and in all of his knowledge, wisdom, strength, and determination, there was nothing he could do. Keep in mind, this is just my assessment, but knowing him as I did, and seeing what set my Grandfather off, alcohol abuse came with a hair trigger for him.
From my young perspective, their conversation would be just rolling along, and without taking a breath, or changing tone until well into the sentence, my Grandfather's words changed to: "and if I was to say, 'Joe Jackson, I never want to see you in this house again.'" Just like that, my Grandfather, 61 years old, jumped up out of his seat and leapt at my father, knocking him out of the kitchen chair. My father, just 30 years old, is doing his best to deflect but not harm my Grandfather.
There was a warning that told us something like this was about to happen. My Grandfather had blue eyes, but they were like nothing I had ever seen. They were ice blue, and when he got angry, they burned through you like charged blue diamonds that could cut you in half. If you got him into this state, you were in trouble and were about to meet a sense of justice not seen in over 50 years.
No doubt my father probably threw out a statement just before my Grandfather went physical to assault him, like pulling a pin on a grenade, knowing it was going to detonate on both of them. The 1975 incident I am referring to was not the only one. There were earlier ones that I recall. One in particular was on a sunny Saturday afternoon. My father was heading to the Package Store (that's Liquor Store for all you non-Conneticans). He had had enough to drink and did not need to be driving.
I wanted to ride with him because on this nice day, he had to top down on our 63 Plymouth Sport Fury Convertible. Dad should have said no, but he was fine with it. I also wanted my cousin Phyllis to come with us to ride in the convertible. She wanted to go. We were in the back seat of the car when my Grandfather came out to confront my father and make us get out. Rightly so.
An argument ensued, which resulted in my Grandfather telling my father he would kill him if he attempted to take us in the car in his condition. Things got pretty tense as my Mom and Aunt Diane tried to calm things down, and my Uncle Dave, just a teenager at the time, had no choice but to play policeman.
Although I am not sure, I believe my father apologized to my Grandfather later. These two men respected each other, but my Grandfather made it known that my Father wasted what he was because of his proneness to alcohol. As they stood here in Port Aransas, face to face, in my Father's front yard on Olander, you could see mutual admiration despite the history. I wasn't ready for that.
My Grandfather pointed out that my Father had filled out, and my Father gave back a "you look good, Dave." My mother and father separated 12 years ago and divorced 10 years ago. But these men had a history, and it was theirs. Now, they had a common cause: grandchildren. It was here that they met and had a friendship that still survived.
We all fell into old and comfortable conversations by dinner time. I brought Dee over to meet my Grandfather. One thing had not changed: the conversation between my Dad and Grandfather flowed just like it always had. This time, there was an undercurrent that they missed each other.
I went home later that evening. Brooke's boyfriend at the time, Alan, had come to visit and meet my Grandfather. Alan was the 3rd generation of a wealthy family on the island. His Grandfather owned a large resort on the island. His parents owned a formidable plumbing company on the island. Alan himself did not seem to do much. He acted like all of the family money was his, but his Grandfather and father were from the school that said, first, you worked for it on your own and proved yourself.
I heard about this visit the next morning. Alan had been going on and on about all of the things that he had done. It was typical for my father and grandfather to talk about engineering and mechanics. Alan kept interjecting how he had done many of these things. My dad told me that he could see my grandfather was getting angry. This twenty-year-old was outright lying to his face. He was genuinely insulted. My grandfather finally told Alan, "You would have to be fifty years old to have done all of these things you are saying you've done." That was his call to tell him to stop now.
My father, knowing the blue fire eyes sign, boldly locked eyes with Alan across the table, ALAN! Cut it out!" Alan, however, lived in a world where he thought he could talk without consequences. Normally, my father just could not be bothered with the kids, "exaggerations," but to my grandfather, a man who lived an incredible life in which his reality far exceeded these fabrications, it was an insult.
Alan continued his fabricated life stories. Again, my grandfather, even angrier now, told him. "You would have to be an old man. You're insulting my intelligence." The warm Port Aransas night, whiskey, and one 20-year-old kid who could not take a warning. A perfect storm. My dad, fed up, told him. "Alan, shut up."
Alan did not take the advice of either. It was now clear to my dad that my grandfather was going to get out of his chair and knock Alan out of his. My father knew the look, after all, he had seen it many times. My father hauled off while Alan was mid-fabrication and punched Alan in the face. Alan fell back, stumbling into my Grandfather, and knocked him from his chair.
My father, suddenly mortified, got down to help my Grandfather up. "Dave, I am so sorry!" As my Grandfather got up, he was unharmed. "BS Joe Jackson, this is your revenge for all those fights you lost to me!" He wasn't mad. In fact, he was happy that Alan finally got what he deserved. My grandfather saw absolutely no value in a person who outright lied to him, even though everything around him proved it was not true.
During the week, I took some time off. My grandfather wanted to take a ride off the island to look for a decent used car for Brooke. We went across the ferry and into Aransas Pass. We looked at a couple of cars, but it was quickly decided that he would purchase her a 1982 Camaro Berlinetta. This was going to be the nicest car in the family and it would match the cars that Brooke's school friends drove.
We immediately registered and insured the car. The car cost $6,200.00, and the insurance was over $1,600.00 because it was registered and insured in the name of a 16-year-old. I think Dad and I were in a state of disbelief, and not because Brooke did not deserve or would not appreciate such a gift. No, Brooke had found her place in Port Aransas. She had great friends. She did well in school. She made great decisions. She was thoughtful. She thrived here on the island. Dad and I had just pictured something a little more entry-level. Around this time, $ 6,200.00 could have bought a brand-new basic Toyota sedan.
Brooke appreciated it immensely, and she took the best care of it. She had Dad to make sure it was always safe and running right. My grandfather hinted that it would mean that he would have a non-island car to take him to and from the airport when he came down. This would not be his only visit.
My grandfather and I had a chance to talk. My Grandmother, my Dad's mother, had called him about D. "He's your grandson, you need to talk some sense into him," she told him. "I like her," my Grandfather told me. "I see her as a victim of circumstance."
It was subliminal to me, but you could tell a lot about the man my grandfather was from his view of the people his grandchildren were with. You could always count on him to just say what was on his mind. He never held back. Never sugar-coated a single word.
His visit was something Brooke, Dad, and I really needed emotionally. There was a grounding effect that Grandfa (we all called him this because either I or Phyllis could not say Grandpa) had on all of us in the family. Divorce or no divorce, it was true for my Dad as well.
One of our best friends in Port Aransas was Glenn. He was a little younger than Dad and used to work with us. He was almost like a brother to me, maybe even more so than JT. My Grandfather took a liking to Glenn. Glenn was not the image of a typical intellectual of those days. He kept a small lawn-mowing and odd-job business. He was thin, with long hair and very laid back. He was one of the most well-read people I knew, other than my Dad and Grandfather. My grandfather loved talking with Glenn. Their conversations extended into hours. They had such a mutual respect for each other that it was unique. I recall my Grandfather even messing with him at times, trying to pass on something that was physically impossible for him to figure out. They laughed at these times together.
Dad and I had no air conditioning; we worked outside all day, so what was the point? When we needed to cook something in the oven, this made the house even hotter. My Grandfather and Brooke went over to Aransas Pass and bought Dad and Brooke a microwave. This was a game-changer. My grandfather saw this as an absolute necessity, even though we never had such modern devices before.
For my grandfather, it was like he had brought electricity to a previously powerless island. For us, it was sort of just like that. I say this because on that first night with the microwave, my Dad was buying different things from the store, bringing them home, and trying to master above-average delicacies with this contraption. It was all very mad scientist-like.
In 1986, the microwave was not a standard home appliance. In fact, restaurants still had warning signs on the door for people with pacemakers, stating that a microwave was in use. The Campbell Soup Company, which owned Swanson, was only now introducing the microwave-safe tray in 1986. So here was my Dad, cooking so many things in the microwave that would become available at grocery stores over the next 20 years. His recipes tasted better, too!
I especially loved this version of my father. There was a playfulness about this. He had insatiable curiosity about what he could make this device do. The rest of us sat there, like tasting judges, impressed with his creativity. It is a fond memory. Music was playing quietly in the corner, out of respect for my grandfather's presence. Cigarette smoke lingered in the room, like it did everywhere in this era. The hot Texas night, humidity, and salt air. The sound of the microwave running. The conversation sounds like my dad's, my sister's, and my grandfather's voices.
This brand of my Dad's cooking resembles me on my best days, and that of my sons as well. It has been great to see how that has developed among the three of us. I wish he were still here to see it. I know I see it randomly, especially in my boys, and it happens without warning. It becomes like a surprise knock on the door.
My Grandfather's visit made Port Aransas seem less far away than it had before. I tried to plant the idea in my head that the turbulent existence Dee and I were living in could somehow be tamed in the wake of his visit. It would bring about a sense of calm overall. But every night it was the same. The pregnant sister was just trying to make the best of what she had. The so-called brother-in-law is whiny, lazy, and constantly complaining. Ulterior motives behind every interaction.
His visit was good for my father. Just like when people would pull me aside at gatherings when my father walked away from the group and tell me my presence had changed him for the better in a large way, I was seeing that manifest with Brooke, with my Grandfather. It was obvious that my dad thrived when he had family around him. Make no mistake, my father had very formidable demons, which is what caused him to originally live alone in the first place. He was not selfish. He hated the idea of any of his problems affecting others. But this was something to see.
My Grandfather enjoyed the visit too. He started a habit of bringing a couple of bags of State Line potato chips for my dad on each trip to Texas. It was a nice touch. There would always be an undercurrent of disappointment with my father in my grandfather because he knew he was so much more than he allowed himself to be. I recall a photo he took of my father passed out on the bathroom floor. It was very unflattering. In early 87, my grandfather flashed the photo in front of me, a passive-aggressive reminder of how frustrated he was with my dad. It could only mean that he still loved him like a son, but was also unhappy with certain choices he made.
Their relationship was complicated. My grandfather clearly had more leeway in Port Aransas to do what he wanted, and you could tell he liked it and wanted it. All along, he complained that our beach was not pretty and that the white-sand beaches of Sarasota were much prettier. He made comments about Port Aransas' bohemian style, but that was its beauty. It could not remain so disconnected forever. I do wonder what he would have thought of it today, in its post-hurricane, insurance-money rebuild that makes it more like Myrtle Beach than its charming, quaint former self. Like a root canal, Port Aransas would eventually be stripped of its personality and made into a drone-like tourist trap.
One final memory of that visit was of a smoke-filled night when we were playing cards for coins at the kitchen table, and beer was flowing. My grandfather preferred whiskey. We were talking about old times, and my Dad said something that my grandfather registered as inappropriate. "Damn, you Joe Jackson!" My grandfather pushed his hands against the edge of the table to rise from the chair. My Dad, seeing all the signs, said, "Oh no, I'm about to get hit." But Grandfa had a little more to drink than he realized and dropped back into his seat as he tried to rise, then once more. Finally, he resigned himself to letting it go. These two men were strange allies. In some ways, they saw the world as the same place, and this is where they met. In other ways, they were different, and they would always be that, too.
I could spend the rest of my life trying to untangle their history and never understand it. I know this, my Dad loved him as if he were his own father. I know this because in my dad's final words her told me so.
Brooke and Dad took Grandfa back to the airport, and he returned to Connecticut. Life in Port Aransas was the same for the most part, but in some ways, he had changed it forever for us in ways that could not be defined.
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