He was tall, with kinky white hair and square, 70's glasses with bi-focal lenses. I think he wore dirty jeans and a button up shirt every day of his life except on Sundays. On Sundays it was a grey suit and white shirt. He also had on a ball cap 90% of the time. The Geneva Rock ball cap sticks out the most in my mind, navy blue with the yellow logo and stiff brim. He would wear his clothes until they were thread-bare, grow his hair until my mom or aunt sat him down to cut it in the living room, and swing his arms slightly away from his body when he walked jovially. He had yellowy teeth, and hair in his ears that always hand me wondering if that was why he couldn't hear through his hearing aids. Though his face was often scruffy with grey hair, he never grew a beard or mustache from what I remember. He loved jigsaw puzzles, Dr. Pepper, and working out in the yard. He also loved all of us, very much, and showed it in his own way.
My earliest memories of this great man are a little stiff around the edges. I don't remember being particularly fond of him when I was very young. He was there on weekends, but always working on some home project or tucked away in his bedroom watching the Jazz game. He was a dedicated worker, always. Mostly I remember him being absent, working for "The Company," traveling--much like my own father in those early days.
Orson H. Gygi Co. was a wonder to behold in action, up close and personal. The restaurant supply company owned by the Gygi clan was in bright, shiny working order. On occasion I was allowed to visit with my dad, but because it was clear up in Salt Lake the occasions were rare. I remember the smell of the place. Smells much the same today, even though the building is new. It smells spicy--like a mixture of industrial metal mixers and hundreds of cookie sheets combined with crates and barrels of every spice any cook would ever desire. It also reminds me of Jelly Beans, mostly because Uncle Perry (my grandpa's brother) would feed me handfuls every time I would visit. At the company I would ride around in the big truck with my dad making deliveries, slide down the box shoot with the plates and napkins, and sometimes get lucky with free scones from Friar Tucks. But I don't really remember much of seeing my grandfather work there. I know he was there, doing much the same thing my own father did. He was the invisible worker. While his sisters ran the company up front, he was behind the scenes I think, helping make everything come together. I would maybe catch a glimpse of him here and there, but the man never stopped moving.
No, my memories of Grandpa Gygi come later, when he grew a little softer and slower with retirement and old age. I can clearly see him laying out on the grass or sidewalk, propped up on one elbow picking out rocks or weeds from the grass and flower beds--one little pick at a time, with his bare hands. I remember the way he used to walk into the room, turn on some George Straight, and dance with his hardly bending knees while he sang along to every lyric. I can still see him sitting at the head of our traditional Saturday lunch table, often frowning about the noise or the lack of Dr. Pepper. Best of all, I see him after my swim practice, sitting in the hot tub at the Rec Center. He just finished practicing his infamous hook-shots (showing those young men a thing or two) and I would always bend down to say hello to him and the other wrinkly men sitting there, relaxing in the steam. He would always smile up at me and introduce me to the others, his granddaughter on the swim team. I always wanted him to be proud, and I think he was, though he would never say it outright. It was just there in his eyes.
For some reason I think my cousin Mattison understood him best. Mati was a gangly, whispy little thing as a girl, and she would latch on to him like none of us other grand kids ever did--except maybe Kelsey. At Disneyland she was firmly attached to his hand. At Thanksgiving point, same thing. Those are the two times I remember it most clearly, but I am sure it happened every time we all got together. He would point, and direct, and lecture. She would stand attentively at his side while the rest of us just rolled our eyes. He would also talk to her about Spanish a lot, a language connection I never shared because I chose to take French. She would laugh and tease and smile right back. For some reason that always touched my heart, and would pull a smile at the corner of my mouth. Her tender, little hand in his.
My grandfather was also a beloved crossing guard for Geneva Elementary. I only got to see him in his bight orange gear a handful of times. However the cones and sign were a staple in the back of his car. They called him "Mr. Smiley." The students always gave him little notes and yellow smiley-face stickers, and even made him a giant poster when he left the post. Admittedly I was always a little jealous of the kids who got to share my grandpa in this way. I could easily picture him talking with those kids, helping them safely cross the street, and of course smiling. He could brighten up the room when he chose, and I miss those smiles so much now.
One of the most significant smiles I ever got from this man was in the hospital. He had been in and out of hospital and hospice care for the last couple of years. He seemed very much a shell of his former self for a long while, dealing with health problems can do that to even the strongest man. He was dwindling away and the doctor had given us his last measures of time. So we congregated as a family, and Spencer and I were some of the last to arrive that day. I remember clearly being so afraid of walking up to the bed and looking at him, but not seeing the grandpa I knew and loved. I didn't want that last memory to be tainted that way. But I did it. I went over, took his hand, and was given the most incredible blessing. It was that precious smile he was known for. The George Straight singing smile. The goofy dancing smile. The talking Spanish, singing in church, crossing guard smile. In fact, it was so beautiful my aunt asked, "What do you see?" thinking it was some kind of vision beyond the veil. But he just continued to smile and said quietly, "London and Spencer." I am sobbing, thinking about it right now. Still such a powerful memory, and at Christmas time even more poignant.
I miss seeing him propped up on the bed watching a basketball game. I miss sneaking into his clothes drawer for the chocolate bars always hidden in there. I miss helping him work in the yard, or put the "New Part" of the house together. I miss the country songs and him singing by the piano--"I Stand All Amazed", "I Know that My Redeemer Lives", and "I Heard Him Come." I miss playing in his bathroom closet and the smell of the yellow soap and old polyester. I miss the shuffle of his feet on the green shag carpet. I miss his big, black dress shoes and grey suit. I miss his faded shirt, holey jeans, and baseball cap. I miss his hook-shot.
He was a great man, stalwart and faithful. He loved working in the temple, and loved his family. He taught me important lessons about hard work and dedication. He may not have been perfect, but he was perfect for us.
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