Edward Andrew Orr (1916-2009): Part II: Stories

My parents and I lived for a short time in Lake Worth, two blocks from my grandma and granpa's condo. There were huge gardenia trees/bushes at the house next door.

My earliest memory of grandpa is when he helped me catch my first fish. We were fishing off of a concrete dock. The beginning of this story might sound like fishing served as some significant masculine bonding glue between my grandpa and me, like, we were both married to the sea or could speak the language of the deep. It's not true; I don't know if we ever went fishing again.

What I do remember is that I caught a fish (circa 4yrs.). It was a beautiful red fish, a red snapper. It was perfectly formed and came out of the ocean without a struggle. I was elated. We took it home and my grandma prepared it for dinner. Later, I learned that grandpa, leaving me there with my mom, and gone to the store, purchased a red snapper, come back, and "hooked it" without my looking. This serves as a perfect reminder that the Irish are not above lying in order to entertain or comfort.

My aunt and cousin came to stay with us for a little while (circa 7yrs), and for some reason I remember we had some little people issues with the dynamic in the house. For a reason I can't put my finger on, we packed suitcases and, in the middle of the night, ran away to grandma and grandpa's. We walked across two streets very late at night and called g&g on the security call box. I don't remember much about what happened after that, but I remember grandpa welcoming us in and even setting out snacks while he called my mom. Were the snacks just a hospitable habit or did he really think we were hungry at 3am?

Another time we went to a small beach that grandpa had some social-in to (circa 7yrs). A guy in the parking lot had a threatening sounding dog who barked a whole bunch on our way out. Grandpa and the guy had some cross words, but I remember feeling secure that he was sticking up for me against dangerous animals.

As BDP has noted in a previous post, grandpa had an unparalleled style. Once, when he was visiting my family (circa 15yrs), I complemented his golf shirt. It really was amazing . . . kind of a Slazenger-meets-MC-Escher trippy print of interlocking triangles. When he came to see us the next day, he presented me with the shirt. It really wasn't my style at the time; I didn't know if I could pull it off. What was more true was that my style was ready to evolve. I started wearing the shirt anyway, and I was more fly for the choice. It may be, to this day, the only golf shirt that I have.

We travelled one May to an event in SC. It may have been my BDP's graduation. My high school pal Jamie came with us (circa 17yrs). For most of the drive there, my mom talked about how grandpa's driving was getting worse, that everyone was on his case to relinquish his license, and he was refusing. She warned us to watch out for him.

Several hours later, leaving the ceremony, Jamie and I ended up in the car with grandma and granpa heading back to the house. Of course grandpa was driving, are you kidding? We thought nothing of it until, backing out of the space he smashed, I guess maybe, smashed lightly, into a concrete light pole foundation. A silence descended on the car. I could only see the back of his head, and I remember vividly that he was wearing a plaid Kangol-style golfing hat. It seemed like minutes unfolded before he put his boatish car in drive, turned his head slightly to the side, and said "Nobody needs to know that," and drove on. We did not tell a soul. Grandpa, please forgive me for putting it on the Interweb.

I never knew how he pulled it off, but as excited as he always has been to see me, to take my face in his hands and kiss me, to hug me with all of his old-guy-cologne-essense, he has always been even more sweet to my children. They adored seeing him, and he looked like a king restored to the throne after exile when he waited to hug them. I know now that they were and are living, breathing extensions of his success as a human being to him.

I remember grandpa putting himself face to face with my oldest son, touching noses in many pictures. He was grandpa's first greaat grandchild and always has felt special in that regard. My daugther loves him like a kindred spirit; she has his spritely sense of humor and bouncing energy. My youngest son only saw him a couple of times, but grandpa was always putting his arms around my little one. I have a great shot of their last hug several months ago. Perhaps something inside grandpa knew that this would be last great grandchild that he would know.