In Memoriam: Robert Eugene Beck

I remember my grandpa as a a tall man, lanky, with brown skin from a lifetime of working in the sun. His knees turned out a little bit, and getting up and down always looked painful. Such is the life of an appliance repairman, fisherman, husband, father of seven, grandfather of fifteen (and counting). His chin was always scratchy with whiskers and his long fingers callused and stained black.

Grandma and Grandpa lived in a little yellow house not far from the highway. We knew to turn onto their street when the left side of the car dipped down in a hole that the city was never able to properly repair. The garage door lifted manually, and loudly enough to serve as a security system. Smooth dark concrete in the garage was cool on little feet that ventured out for a cold pop whenever Mom said it was okay, or wasn't watching. After dinner Grandpa would offer me his hand and I'd grasp the one finger my little fist could manage, and he'd take me out to the chest freezer and let me choose a treat. Flintstone Push-Up Pop, Orange, please.

Every summer Grandpa went fishing in Canada, a men-only trip upon which the women slowly encroached. It was father and sons, and later son-in-laws and grandsons, and fish for every meal. One wall of the living room was dedicated to pictures of proud dads an ecstatic sons holding strings of walleye and bass nearly as big as themselves.


Actual fish, mounted and hung among the pictures, made the adventure seem larger than life to my wide eyes. Canada stories were a staple to every family gathering, more prevalent even than Uncle Mike's potato bread or the family slide shows. I couldn't wait to be old enough to go fishing in Canada with Grandpa.


Potlucks were Memorial Day and Labor Day staples. Twenty, thirty, or more of us converged upon the little house as often as possible, and Grandpa spent the day with the barbeque. My cousins played football in the backyard, and we all took turns hand cranking the ice cream. When we needed a break, we slipped to the dark laundry room and played Card Sharks or Percy (a very early SIM), on Grandpa's Apple IIe.

After dinner, games of euchre broke out all over the house. Grandpa taught me how to play when I was eleven, counting cards and pointing out my errors with the wit of a devil and the patience of a saint. I knew I was grown up when I was invited to be the fourth in a game of euchre with Grandpa.

At Christmas, Grandpa would block the back door with a huge fresh cut tree. Elegant, hand-made ornaments from a trip to Germany looked funny in Grandpa's rough hands, but were beautiful in the glowing lights. Angie the Angel sat on top of the tree, beatific. Christmas potlucks were much the same as summer ones, with turkey and pie instead of barbeque and ice cream. Afterward, we'd sit all around the edges of the room and the smallest kids would hand out presents one at a time, asking Mom and Dad to tell them which person was Gregg, or Steve Jr., or Boo. The adult's gift exchange often turned ridiculous, with complicated wrapping jobs (think concrete and metal straps) leading to yet another exchange of the Ugliest Tie Ever. Grandpa and Grandma were always king and queen of that room. We paid our homage with hugs and kisses and respect.

Now that I'm older, I wish I knew more about what life was like for Grandpa when he was younger. What was it like to fight in Korea?

Or to have seven kids in a house with one bathroom and no money?

What was it like to fall in love with my grandma?

What was it like to wake up every morning for years after my grandma's heart diagnosis, wondering if it would be the last day? How did he get to be so brave, and still so loving?


I was fourteen when my grandpa died: old enough to have memories of his cancer diagnosis and sneaking our dog and a chocolate milkshake into his hospital room. But today, ten years later, I'm going to remember his huge, toothless grin when we walked in the door. I'm going to remember the way he laughed. I'm going to remember the way he I'm going to remember the way he called us little kids to scrape off the dasher even when we didn't help crank the ice cream. I'm going to remember how patient he was when I interviewed him for my eighth grade history project. And I'm going to remember what his hugs felt like.

Ten years isn't long enough to take away the sadness or the missing him. But God, thanks for Grandpa.