My Sweetie's Funeral Talk by Bossy

Bossy's talk will be split over several days because of the length. But you won't be sorry, it is worth the read; funny and heart-warming.

I was almost five when my dad’s dad, Grandpa Christensen died. Same age as Ryker and Oakley, a little bit younger than Thomas, Gavin, and Josh. In those beginning years, Neal and I were college babies; we had young and financially strained parents who lived a great distance from their parents. We would visit when we could; during fall and winter break, other holidays to can and raid the food storage, and to see our grandparents. I believe there is one photo of me with grandpa Christensen, but I don’t remember him personally. What I remember is the superhero tale told by my father, when he was growing about his father. Grandpa Christensen was stronger than Superman, he could withstand the force of multiple blows to the head with a 2x4. He ran faster than a deer. He fought hard for our country, so hard that his hair turned white overnight. The man, the myth the legend, kept alive by the artful storyteller that was my own father.

In many ways I have two stories to tell, the twenty years he was my dad and the twenty years after I had bestowed him with the title “Grandpa.” The best example I can give of my dad growing up, and forgive me if it is way off base, Kiyna, I have a confession. I stopped halfway through book five and never finished the series, but my dad was Hagrid.
Big guy, long hair, leather jacket, strong, loyal, and scary if you crossed him. He was a gentle giant who was also my spiritual rock.

Let’s start with the long hair. Most of my childhood, my dad and I were in competition for who had the best hair. I concede now that I likely lost this contest in my childhood, but my dad knew that in my insecure world as the chubby, socially-awkward child that when I was home, stewing about the mean girls at school, he could always turn my mood around by instigating a who had the longest hair contest. We would rally the judges and we each took turns, my dad with an exaggerated half back bend and myself contorting far more flexible, ever trying to will my hair to touch my butt and win. As a teenager, when the hair game became silly, instead my place to hide my insecurities was stealing his beloved leather jackets and hiding inside them. His shield protected me from the insecurities of an overweight teenager in a world that idolized anorexia.

Growing up, one of our favorite Grandpa Christensen stories was my dad sharing his own bratty behavior. We loved hearing about the time grandma-great threw the tv out the front door because her boys were being naughty, but a classic replay was the bike. My dad, the preteen, was over at a friend's house who lived up the street, uphill from their
house. He had ridden his bike over there. At some point, he entered a battle of wills with his mom and started being disrespectful. The mistake was that his dad was present
and had he heard him. My dad caught the look and knew he was in trouble. He made his exit plan and grabbed his bike. It was the 70s, so picture the banana seat with the handle on the back. Grandpa Christensen told him to apologize to his mother. And my
dad positioned himself carefully at the top of the hill ready to ride. He said “No!” and promptly took off as fast as his legs could pedal from the top of the street knowing he was free; he was on his bike and his dad on foot. Legend says he was to the neighbor's driveway when the strong arm encircled his waist to keep him from flying over the handlebars as his dad’s other hand grabbed the handle on the bike seat and swiftly ended his escape plans. Dad was marched back to the neighbor's house to apologize to his mother. 

We had heard this story hundreds of times growing up, so it shouldn’t have

been a surprise that we have our own version of this story. Neal was between 11 and 12, not yet 6’4” or whatever ridiculous height he is now. I was still taller at this point. We were
in the kitchen and Neal was mouthing off to Mom, Dad came around the corner and quietly and firmly in the don’t mess with me voice told him to straighten up and apologize. Of course as big sister, I was gleefully watching with popcorn. Forgetting all
the warning tells of Christensen boys who sass their mothers, Neal dug in with a “No!” We were inside, so he didn’t have a bike to escape on, so he planned a distraction, he knocked over a Pepsi. We will have to ask him, I don’t remember if Dad was holding it or it was on the counter, but with his distraction in play, he created a mess and fall hazard and took off
like it was Mario cart and the banana would assure his victory and escape. I’ve never seen my father move so fast and gracefully as he channeled his inner Superman and grabbed Neal by the ankles and proceeded to use his hair to mop up the Pepsi while
lecturing him on treating mom with respect and apologizing. He was strong.

Dad was so proud of his kids. I know that the secrecy of L3 and his work and not being able to bring us in and show off his lab was difficult for him. Even though we only got to see his office once during the special L3 party, I already knew what his office would look like. The model yellow Chevy Nomad I had gifted him with my own money, and a bookcase with 12 photos lined up; pictures of us kids. Dad would constantly brag about us and share our happenings. I am sure many of his coworker friends here know more about us than we know about them.

My earliest memories of my dad include, silly songs, pillow forts and the video camera. I swear he had the video camera for an arm from 87-93 recording the mundaneness of our everyday lives. Those home videos of slides and jumping into pillows were not special occasions that was our every day growing up with a dad who called himself a 9-year old boy. We were trained by the best, as children waiting for Mom to get out of class or

finish a Tupperware party, we knew where all the good parks and slides where Dad was always there alongside us, never afraid of getting stuck in a tunnel slide. And so grateful because it was difficult to make that 9-year-old angry. Neal and I got away with practically murder for naughty behavior growing up during a brief obsession with Cool Runnings.
We turned the staircase into a practice track with bunkbed mattresses and laundry basket
bobsleds, ruining the mattresses, baskets and putting holes in the wall. My dad just replaced and the patched wall. . By the way, the mattress stair slide sans baskets continued to the Bridle Oak house and nearly middle school. I am pretty sure at least once my dad also slid down the stairs to see how fun it was. He did, however, make us haul the matresses to the downstairs stairs because the open hallway was safer than landing into the wall at the bottom of the main floor.

At his childhood home it was the equivalent of the pull up bar on the stairs. Neal and I were too short to reach it, but that didn’t stop us from jumped from several stairs up trying

 to be cool like Uncle Greg. Eventually, Dad would come over and lift us up to reach and catch us when we could only hold on for a few seconds.

Come back tomorrow for more.