My grandfather, William C. Grauer, was both a recognized artist and a pun aficionado. He created art which appeared in public and private collections; even in museums. He painted many murals, including The Virginia Room at the Greenbrier Resort in West Virginia.

His puns, however, were always crafted around the kitchen table. That was the Billie I knew.

In April 1985, I answered the phone in my Chicago apartment. It was mom.

“Daddy’s had a stroke, Melanie,” she began.

“Is he ok? Should I come home?” I asked, all at once.

“He is in the hospital, and he is weak,” she responded.

I felt badly how she must be feeling. She had idolized her “daddy” since she was five-years-old. But she didn’t really share those thoughts. She was stoic, as always.

“No, I don’t think you should come home. I’ll keep you posted, but I wanted you to know.”

“Alright” I offered, sadly. Billie was 89 now, and a stroke did not sound like he would have a full recovery, even if everything went well.

He would despair if he physically couldn’t get his ideas on a canvas, I thought.

When she called again to tell me he had pneumonia in his lungs, I knew I would not see him again.

The final call came soon after. In memoriam, The Cleveland Museum of Art hung his 1937 oil painting “Ohio Landscape” outside the Director’s office. There were editorials in The Cleveland Plain Dealer.

I had always been close to Billie, and I knew I would return for the service. Mom and I discussed whether I should speak. With my speech background; I agreed I would like to do it.

Booking my ticket, I worked hard on my thoughts in-flight on pieces of typewriting paper. I also was scrambling the next morning to re-write a portion of it. It was so important to honor this well-loved, important artist and teacher in the highest professional manner and everything I wrote felt inadequate.

And then, catastrophe really struck. I was so nervous about this pending responsibility that I left the chicken-scrawled pieces of paper behind. I was driving mom and myself, so I didn’t realize that they weren’t in my purse. I started sweating when I put together what had happened.

“Mom, I can’t do it,” I had said. “He won’t get the praise he deserves; there is no way I can remember all the words I wrote,” I exclaimed.

“Well, we got here early; maybe someone can go back and get it,” she suggested.

Steve, the son of my dad’s best friend, was attending the service and offered to help.

“I’ll go. Where did you leave it?”

“I think on the dining room table, thank you so much,” I said with immense relief. It would probably be about a 40-minute round trip.

Time passed. The pews filled.

His wife, Dorothy, leaned over to me in the first pew and whispered, “Whatever you say will be beautiful, even if the speech doesn’t arrive.” I nodded.

The organ began. Steve wasn’t back yet. another speaker stood and spoke for a few minutes. Everyone sung a hymn. Steve wasn’t back yet.

I was next. The minister nodded towards me and I stood. I walked woodenly towards the podium.

Looking out at the solemn faces, I thought, why did I think I could do this? I’ve gone from inadequate to ruining everything. What a nightmare.

And then; there he was. Steve was suddenly standing at the back of the church and waving the papers at me.

“If you’ll excuse me just a moment,” and I stepped down and started walking down the center aisle, as Steve came towards me. Heads turned with confused faces everywhere.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “You saved my life just now.” He just smiled and took a seat.

“That was close,” I said softly with a small, but grateful smile. And then, I began to share these words, unedited, exactly as I spoke them forty years ago.

“Ever since I was quite young, I’ve displayed this peculiar habit of talking with my hands because it was my way of emphasizing what it was I wanted to say. It was my grandfather, Billie, who pointed out to me that I had a wonderful talent in expressing myself through (as he put it) such graceful and beautiful movements. Always the teacher. Always the supporter. Billie could find the positive in any situation, and in any person, including a sometimes “fidgety” granddaughter. I wish that it could only take simple hand gestures to express myself with the most clarity here today because it is so important to me to try to make all of you understand the depth of love and admiration I (as well as my family) had for my grandfather. We are all very conscious of our loss.

This short tribute is really through the eyes of a young girl watching and admiring the work and philosophies of her grandfather. I consider myself an extremely lucky person to have had the chance to have Billie as a role model, and to grow up trying so hard to be like him. As a man, I’m sure Billie had his flaws, but as his granddaughter, I didn’t see them.

He was a mentor of sorts for me.  Just by spending time with him, I was able to learn so many important lessons; the importance of working hard, being patient, setting the highest goals, and always, always looking forward, never back.

To illustrate this from a granddaughter’s perspective, I am sure many of you were able to bear witness to the beautiful garden which Billie created year after year. All types of plants and flowers were arranged evenly in single rows down the length of the garden, with a cascading fountain which ran into a small pool surrounded by a rock garden.  He, naturally, had designed it all.

Because it was difficult for Billie to maintain, I became his keeper of the garden, and I absolutely loved it. Billie didn’t have to sit me down and tell me that in life you have to work hard and to look for perfection, he simply unleashed me in his garden where I worked for hours pulling every weed, watering every plant. For me, it was creating my own mini-work of art, and the rewards were obvious as the flowers burst into full color while growing uncontrollably…and Billie and I watched it together. Lesson learned.During each fall, some of the plants were brought inside, the fountain turned off and all the tools put away, but always with the simple expectation that it would happen again next year – a new season.

Although I wanted to be able to relate to my grandfather on more of an artistic level, I was able to see through his work that his dedication and talent in the art world was simply phenomenal. He created a life for himself out of something he adored, and he was rewarded with the complete respect and reverence that should be associated with such talent.

He rarely talked about his artistic achievements with me. Instead, he opted to spend the time either telling me stories of his own youth, of growing up, or simply sharing with me his wonderful sense of humor as we both laughed over his sometimes, horrible puns. I loved my grandfather very much, and if I could have inherited even an ounce of his creativity, I will have already come far in terms of my own desire for artistic achievement. I am so happy that I could learn about life through his eyes and his experiences, I could not have had a better teacher.

Because of him, I have been able to set some fairly high goals for myself. And hopefully in time, have the confidence and talent from which to achieve them. If not, the most important lesson learned was that although there may be a failure one day, there just very well may be a success the next and to keep trying, to be optimistic; someday that “tomorrow” could become a “today”.

Afterwards, people asked if they could have a copy! It was good enough after all. Why had I felt such self-hatred? Because I accepted a responsibility which overwhelmed me, and I came close to everything falling apart; including me.

To this day, I am thankful to Steve for retrieving my words; for saving me and sparing the service some embarrassment. It worked out, but I still carry the humility of what could have been.

Church Photo by Wendy Wei on Pexels.com