This essay is the first in my Grandparent Series—a collection of memories, lessons, and stories from the people whose love and wisdom shaped me. Writing these pieces helps me keep them close, and I hope they spark memories of your own grandparents too.
Dear Readers-
There are two men I loved and trusted. Both had the same name, both lived in the same city, and both hold my heart. Grandpa.
Today, this is about the Grandpa I knew most of my life. Next time will be about the Grandpa who died when I was a little girl.
“Stop pushing my buttons!”
It was a phrase I heard a lot growing up. Sometimes I really did push people’s buttons, and sometimes they pushed mine. But with Grandpa, it was different. With him, button-pushing was our love language. He pushed my buttons, I pushed his, and that back-and-forth became the rhythm of our bond.
We debated life, everything in it. When Grandpa stood strong in his view, instead of acquiescing, I challenged him. It was a challenge of the minds, a thought exercise. He was a staunch Democrat and I was a sassy grandchild, still finding my footing. We debated politics, stocks, and food.
Smart, witty, and stubborn, he could make your head spin. But we did not argue, we debated. I sometimes wondered what gave him his constitution. Was it the red onion he ate without tearing that gave him strength? I still see him standing in the kitchen, holding the onion to his mouth and hearing the crunch as he took that first bite.
Or maybe it was the whitefish head he ate in front of me to torment me, insisting it gave him wisdom. Maybe I wasn’t as wise as he, but I was sassy. I was the grandchild who wrinkled her nose, rolled her eyes, and fired back with a smart remark, secretly loving every minute of our playful sparring.
His humor definitely came through in many ways. One year, he brought his own birthday cake that read “Happy Birthday Dad,” he was convinced we might forget to celebrate him. How could we forget the patriarch of the family?
Grandpa was tall and lanky, a sharp dresser who seemed to have stepped straight out of a men’s magazine from the 1920s. His hat always matched his outfit, and more often than not, a cigar rested between his fingers. To this day, his is the only cigar scent I could ever enjoy. One of his hats hangs in my home now, where I see it every day, a reminder of his presence, his style, and his love.
Grandpa and I just loved one another. Fully, honestly, and completely. He did not only have a key to my heart, he also had a key to my house so he and Grandma could surprise me or come whenever they wanted. Now that is close.
The three of us were so very close. Knowing he could be there at any moment, I was always ready with chicken soup for them both, and that was one thing neither of us debated. He was happy to eat my chicken soup and I was thrilled to prepare it.
When Grandpa was in the hospital, I prepared the last chicken soup he would ever have from me. I made it that day and didn’t wait for it to cool before pouring it into Tupperware. My father got into the driver’s seat, and I carefully placed the container between my legs so I could belt myself in.
As we rolled down the road, the hot, fatty soup spilled onto my thighs. That day, Grandpa was not the only one in the hospital. I came home with third-degree burns. And still, the next day, I brought Grandpa his soup.
When Grandpa died at ninety-four, we gathered at the assisted living home to pack up his things. I wanted something tangible to hold onto, something that would remind me of him. On the table in his room, I noticed the necklace he always wore, the one with his name engraved and the emergency call button dangling at the end.
No one will miss this, I thought, as I slipped it into my purse before helping my father gather the rest of Grandpa’s belongings.
Later, standing by my car, I pulled out the necklace. I pressed the button and spoke to him as if he were right there beside me.
“Grandpa, I don’t know what I am going to do without you. Who will tell me the family stories? Who will read the stock pages to me? Who will debate everything with me, from the best chopped liver to who will be the best President?”
I kept pressing his button, maybe hoping he would appear.
Then my father came rushing outside.
“Are you pushing Grandpa’s button?”
Startled, I tossed it into the car and tried to hide it. “What do you mean?”
“Grandpa’s light is going off inside…someone is pressing his button.”
Looking into my dad’s blue eyes, my hands resting on his shoulders, I said softly, “Maybe it was G-d. Maybe Grandpa arrived in Heaven and he is sending us a little sign that he is okay.”
Leaning back toward my car door to shut it, I pressed the button once more and whispered, “I love you, Grandpa.” I closed the door, turned to my father, and we hugged. Hand in hand, together we walked back inside.
Together we arrived here.
Together we are going through this.
Together we will carry him forward.
He had lived a long life with sharp wit and an equally strong personality. Music was in his heart and soul. In those last hours, I sang to him the songs he had cherished and once shared with his grandchildren, Horsey, Keep Your Tail Up, Yes, We Have No Bananas, and finally, Happy Birthday.
It was during Happy Birthday that his body took a deep sigh. A smile of peace spread across his face, and in that moment of love and connection, he was gone.
Even now, every time I press Grandpa’s button, I feel as though he is still answering back, through stories, through song, through memory. And maybe that is the truth about buttons, they do not just trigger us, they tether us. They remind us of the ones who pushed us, loved us, shaped us, and challenged us to be more than we believed.
He taught me about stocks, politics, and saving money. But mostly he taught me about family, love, and kindness.
We are who we are because Grandpa and Grandma poured their love and wisdom into us.
Together we remember.
Together we smile.
Together we keep pressing the buttons that tether us to love.
Now, whenever I hear someone say, “Stop pressing my buttons,” I cannot help but smile, because Grandpa and I share an inside joke that belongs to us alone.
For Your Pleasure—Yes, We Have No Bananas
💌Thank you for reading. These stories are my way of pressing Grandpa’s button again, of keeping him near. I hope they encourage you to press the buttons in your own life that connect you to love, memory, and family.
If this made you smile or brought back a family memory, I’d love for you to share it in the comments below. Your comments let me know you’re enjoying what I write and that these stories matter. They give me strength and fortitude, reminding me that my words can make a difference.
With love,
Chellie
Thank you for sharing your grandfather and your special relationship with him.Beautifully written.