My Grandpa was a man of precision. And he kept things. His garage was a marvelous lair of stuff. There were old toys, tools, equipment, fasteners, hoses, pipes, hardware, rope, even pieces of rope. With such an arsenal, there was no problem, no malfunction, no part too obscure for Grandpa’s garage. Where others may have seen mess, disorder, and compulsion, Grandpa had purpose.

Grandpa knew that some projects, some problems, some repairs could only be properly dealt with using particular and exact componentry and processes. In other words, every problem had its solution. By extension then, as Grandpa saw it and I have come to agree, every solution belonged to a problem. When Grandpa found himself holding the solution to a problem that did not yet exist, Grandpa would tuck that solution safely away in his garage, and into his encyclopedic mental inventory for future service to friend, family or stranger. And for all the frustration and vexation this collecting may have wrought, Grandpa would always come up with remedies no manual, mechanic or parts store could.

Grandpa treated language in much the same way. He had a particular manner of speaking that was something like a lumbering giant on tip-toe. He had a kind of greatness in temperament and timbre that was reflected in the words he chose. I am not claiming that society folk would find my Grandpa particularly poetic. Who cares if they would? He was grand, anyway. He would measure his words as he chose them, word by word. This gave his speech a unique cadence that lended itself neatly to advice, lecture and admonition. His demeanor was simultaneously humble and austere, grand, out-sized and simple. As he spoke in a voice that boomed and carried, his thesis danced. Just when you thought he was nearing his point, to nail down just what he intended to convey, he would find a way to persist, measuring in real time his audience’s response to remedy any discrepancies therein with still more precise verbiage. In short, Grandpa appreciated that there is no such thing as a perfect synonym.

I am certain that there are some in my family who would find this to be a romantic interpretation. To be sure, I weathered far, far fewer lectures than my mom and uncles. For my part, though, I’m not sure that I had enough. I loved the way my grandpa spoke. I loved his words, and I love that I got to hear as many as I did.

And while grandpa’s precision would lead ironically to so many exhaustive dissertations, sometimes that precision made for just the result one would expect. A few years ago, when I finally got my Aggie Ring my Grandpa and Gran-Anne came up for the ring dunking. This is a time-honored ceremony of near-sacred importance to many Aggies. At this point in his life, the associated conspicuous consumption and reckless revelry were not my Grandpa’s idea of a good time, to say the least. So it was a real treat to have him there, in spite of his reservations. After the dunking, I passed the pitcher around for friends and family to sign. I remember seeing Grandpa with the pitcher, pen held thoughtfully. I remember wondering what exactly he would choose to say on this momentous occasion. After my family had left and we carried on throughout the night, my friends and I, I wondered what my Grandpa had said. I remember his face, his thoughtful expression, his deliberation and purpose. His was the first note I looked for on the pitcher after everyone had left. It read “Grandpa & Anne”. For all that he could have chosen to say, my Grandpa of so many words, he said simply, precisely, in so many words “your Grandpa was here for you”. And that said everything.