My Grandfather

 I was going through a few more photos today and ran across this one.

 

My grandfather Pedro Casas and me. 1961-62, I'm guessing. Our backyard in South Gate, California.

My grandpa Casas was the only grandparent I ever actually knew. My memories with him are vivid. My father built a studio apartment off the back of our garage, facing our swimming pool. That's where my grandpa lived, in my backyard. How lucky was I? He would come in the house every morning where my mother would be making his breakfast. He loved soft boiled eggs and my mom served them in  fancy little egg stands. I remember watching him sitting at the head of the table, gently tapping his spoon around the top of the boiled egg. Then, he would carefully peel the separated pieces from the egg, forming a perfect little bowl full of deliciousness. I would watch him dip his toast into the egg yolk and copy him, step for step. I can absolutely still see him smiling at me while cooing in Spanish to me. I may not have understood much of what was said but I always deeply felt two things when he spoke to me; the love in his voice and the thrill of hearing the R in my name rolled when he said it. I still hear it. 

My mother loved my grandfather. She waited on him hand and foot, spoiling him as she did everyone else in the family. There are only two things I can recall that would get her upset with Pedro Casas. Of course, those were my two favorite things Grandpa Casas did in my world.

Grandpa could make his false teeth almost fall out but not quite before slurping them back in place. I thought this was some kind of magic that a person could make their teeth come out and go back in. I would beg him to do his trick and he would willingly comply. This usually got us both in trouble and definitely always had us removed from the kitchen. It was worth it to see those twirling, spinning teeth do their magic.

The second thing he did that got a rise out of my mother involved the Helms Bakery truck. Just about every evening before dinner, my grandpa would take me out on our front porch, plop down in his wooden chair then sit me on his lap where he would read the paper to me. Sometimes it was in English, sometimes in Spanish. It was the place I was happiest at home, with my grandfather. Eventually, we would hear the distinctive whistle of the Helms man and off we'd go to wait on the curb until he reached our house. The trick was to get the Helms man to open those truck doors and pull out the  beautiful wooden trays filled with donuts and cookies before my mom knew what was happening. Most days, we made it back to the porch with our contraband before Sister Mary Bernice showed up with the ruler. 

What I wouldn't give for an evening on the porch with Pedro Casas.