The Duke

by Brendyn Schneider

“‘Brendyn’? What the hell kinda name is ‘Brendyn’?”

They called him The Duke after famed baseball player, Duke Snider. Growing up, I found the connection to be in name only. Grandpa was more like Archie Bunker.

“This kid’s gonna be German. He should have a respectable German name like his brother, Edward. Nothin’ wrong with ‘Conrad’ or ‘Wolfgang.’”

Everyone has a guy like my grandfather in their family – an irreverent, anti-PC, “my country, right or wrong,” old school, opinionated, armchair critic. You’re wrong. I’m right. You’re dismissed with a wave of my hand.

When I was five years old, he continued his crusade for Wolfgang.

“Hey Lefty, what the hell kinda name is ‘Brendyn?’”

With a smile, I replied, “It’s a nice respectable Irish name!”

“Irish?” he frowned and made a fist. “Run into this.”

I believe my grandfather coined that phrase. I was psyched because if you got “Run into this” instead of the hand wave, it meant that my grandfather respected your stance.

The Doors weren’t so lucky. It was 1967. The couple that would be my parents sat watching Jim Morrison and co. on Ed Sullivan when my grandfather walked into the room.

“Who the hell are these hippies?”

“It’s The Doors,” my mother replied.

“Yeah?” he said with a wave of his hand. “Well, someone oughta slam ‘em!”

This aversion toward hippies popped up again seven years later. My mother was in labor with my older brother and my dad was assisting her across the hospital parking lot. My grandfather was in tow, trying to keep up with a faulty hip and a new cane. Despite the urgency of his daughter-in-law’s labor, he couldn’t help passing judgment on his own son’s hairdo.

“Goddamned long hair. That’s how my grandson’s gonna see you for the first time? You jerk.”

My parents looked at each other. Their first child would be there in mere hours. It was a time when nothing could be left to chance. Laughing felt good. It really broke the tension. My grandfather shook his head and waved his hand.

Now, Grandpa wasn’t all complaints. Sometimes, he was an ace deterrent of social blunders. One faux pas in particular is something that all little boys do. They all hold onto it. It’s there, why not? True, sometimes it’s in use but that’s not really under your control. Most of the time, it’s just hanging around so you may as well hold it. One day, just like any other three-year old, I was standing around, holding on, looking up at the clouds and humming, when my grandfather noticed.

“Hey, hey,” he said. “Don’t play with that. That’s for poor kids to play with who have no toys.”

Flawed reasoning? Sure. But it was the last time I held on.

It wasn’t that I wanted to be disassociated with poor kids. I didn’t know what “poor” was. I listened to him because he was a friend of mine. See, a kid knows the difference between an adult who’s looking to chase you and a big person who’s cool enough to hang. Grandpa hung with us and often got in on whatever my brothers and I were joking around about.

There was this Dodge commercial on TV in the early 80s. It was on so much that my brother Ed and I memorized the jingle. My grandfather knew the commercial and used to request it.

The first line went, “Take off your top and head for the sun.”

Our grandmother never watched TV. So, when she heard us singing, “Take off your top and head for the sun,” she didn’t envision a young couple taking the top off of their jeep and cruising down the beach, she saw the couple taking off their shirts and cruising into a dune somewhere. She’d say, “Edward, Brendyn, I’m gonna wash your mouths out with soap!”

My grandfather never told her where the song came from. He’d just sit there and laugh, asking for an encore. Years later, he’d still lean over to me and whisper, “Hey Brendyn. Take off your top and head for the sun.”

When it came to stuff that belonged to my grandfather, he was very particular. The best example of this was his lawn. It HAD to be cut in a very specific way. I got my license when I was sixteen and I started driving into Elmont for the forty bucks he’d pay me to cut his grass. That first time, we stood over the mower, and he laid out the ground rules.

“Now, lookit,” he said, “if you’re gonna do this, you’re not gonna jerk around. I wantcha to do it the right way. Y’gonna go around the whole yard in a circle ‘till you get to the middle. All the great golf courses are cut like that. Y’ever see a golf course cut any other way?”

“I don’t really like golf.”

“You want a kick in the pants?”

“No.”

“In a circle.”

He sat in front of the garage and watched. When I got back to Copiague, I talked to my dad.

“What’s with Grandpa’s obsession with cutting his lawn in a circle?”

“Like a golf course, right?” he smiled.

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“‘Cause he’s been saying that since I was sixteen.”

“Wait a minute. The lawn’s been cut the same way for like, thirty years?”

“Thirty years.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m gonna try it a different way next time.”

My dad started laughing. “Okay, big shot. Go ‘head. See what happens.”

I thought, why not? What’s the worst that can happen? So, a few weeks pass and I’m in Elmont again. Grandpa’s watching by the garage when suddenly the circle skews into yard-long stripes. I was liberating the grass, you see. It was like cereal. If you had eaten Cheerios and only Cheerios since before the Beatles had become a household name, wouldn’t a bowl of Cocoa Puffs taste awesome?

My grandfather stormed out onto the lawn, shaking his cane and yelling. I couldn’t hear him above the roar of the mower but I could make out his mouthing the words, “TURN IT OFF!”

I bent down and flipped the kill switch.

“What?”

“Y’know, them guineas would fire you!”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

He pointed across the street. “The guinea astronauts, goddammit!”

I turned around and spotted the landscapers. Some were mowing the lawn. Others had leaf blowers with mini-generators strapped to their backs. These were the astronauts.

“Grandpa! You can’t say that!”

“The hell I can’t! I told you in a circle!”

“No,” I shook my head. “You can’t call people ‘guineas.’ That’s screwed up.”

“I-talians, Ricans, whatever the hell you wanna call ‘em! I don’t care. Just do the lawn the right way or get the hell outta here!”

“But that’s racist.”

“Ah!” he said and I got the hand wave.

Later, my dad asked me how cutting the lawn went.

“He told me that the guineas would fire me.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “He told me the same thing when I was your age.”

“Dad, who the hell discriminates against Italians?”

“He’s old, Bren. Set in his ways.”

Things had to be done his way, and not just on his own property. About a year after the failed lawn-liberation, I got a call from my grandmother. She declared that she would never again be taking my grandfather shopping with her.

My grandfather picked up the extension and said, “Oh, you!”

No doubt she got the hand wave.

“What happened, Grandpa?” I asked.

“It’s these damn senior citizens! They go up and down the aisle, check all the ingredients. They walk so damn slow. So, I got tired of waitin.’”

Over the years, my grandfather’s hip had gotten worse. The cane had become a constant companion except in the supermarket. There, he would be in charge of the shopping cart. His weight was probably more evenly placed so he could walk a little faster…until someone got in his way.

“What’d you do, Grandpa?”

“He pushed a woman with the cart!” my grandmother cried.

“She deserved it!” he countered. “These goddamned senior citizens – they just get in the way.”

My grandfather was almost seventy.

Pushing a shopping cart around was his chance to drive. He never had a license. Can you believe that? He never drove. Maybe it was a good thing actually, considering the shopping-cart-hit-and-run. I’ll never forget watching from the back seat as he yelled at the other drivers.

“Look at this one! Who’s he think he is!? There should be a horn on this side!”

We’d keep him fired up. “Hey Grandpa! That’s a good idea!”

“Y’damned right it’s a good idea! I wouldn’t be lettin’ these people get away with murder like yer grandmother!”

“Shut up, Dad!” she’d snap.

My grandmother used to call him “Dad.” I always thought that was weird.

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” he’d say then stage-whisper over his shoulder to my younger brother, “Hey Graham, don’t say anything but Grandma’s Polish.”

“I am not!” she’d cry.

“I’m Irish,” I’d pipe in.

“No Honey,” my grandmother would look at me through the rearview. “You’re an American.”

Then my grandfather would salute and break into a chorus of Over There.

Up until college, I would have told you that my destiny was acting. All through high school, I loved Drama Class and the school plays. Of course, my grandfather was an expert on this as well.

“Hey, listen to me,” he’d say. “If you wanna be an actor, you gotta know how to sing and dance.”

“Well Grandpa, that’s not the kind of acting I want to-”

“Shut up. The hell do you know? Lookit, all the great actors can sing and dance.” He counted them off with his fingers, “Fred Astaire, James Cagney, even that jerk Jerry Lewis can carry a tune.”

“But those guys aren’t actors anymore.”

Yeah, I’d get the hand wave for that one too.

I went to college in Boston and somewhere along the way, I found that I had become a writer. I’d venture down to Long Island frequently, never fully washing the NY from my skin. There was one visit right before my grandfather had gotten sick that sticks out in my mind. He looked at me for a moment then shook his head.

“What was that for?” I laughed.

“The hell are you fakin’ up there?” he asked.
Grandpa had gotten older but no less original.

“What? I’m not faking anything.”

“Then when the hell are you comin’ back?”

“Well, I don’t know, Grandpa. I live in Boston now.”

“Ah,” he said with a wave of his hand but this time it wasn’t due to a lack of respect. In that moment, I think he realized that his grandson had grown up.

Toward the end of your life, the brain takes inventory – where it’s been, what it’s believed in. In his final months, Grandpa told countless stories of growing up in Brooklyn and serving the Navy. One night, completely out of the blue, he turned to me and said, “God forgive me, Brendyn. I’ve been such a racist.”
Even the most obstinate can become unset in their ways.

While compiling anecdotes for The Duke more connections popped up. In 1963, Duke Snider had played for The Mets – both my grandfather and Archie Bunker’s favorite baseball team. I found that “The Duke” was actually more than just a name. It stood for three New Yorkers, two outspoken critics and one man I was proud to call my grandfather.

***
Read more about The Duke here:
You Get No Bread With One Meatball
Old Friends
Basement Archaeology
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More stories by Brendyn can be found at at www.brendynschneider.com

© 2008-2012, Brendyn Schneider, reprinted by Dadity.com with permission. Use or reprint not authorized without permission of the author.