Grandpa

After class, I talked to my coach, and she recommended more protein and fewer carbs. So that’s the plan starting today. I already had my eggs this morning, which is saying something because I NEVER eat breakfast.

But anyways… that’s not really the point of this post.

I was talking to my friend and neighbor on the drive home from the gym. She takes me every day, and we were both saying how almost insulting it feels when doctors label us as “obese.” We’re trying. We’re working hard. We’re showing up every single day.

I told her when I think of the word obese, I think of my grandfather. He was close to 400 pounds when he died. I talked about him for a few minutes and started getting teary-eyed. She saw it coming and quickly changed the subject. Honestly, 6:30 in the morning is way too early to cry.

But after I got home, edited some photos, and took a shower, I realized I still couldn’t stop thinking about him.

My grandfather’s name was Edwin Fox Evenson, but everyone called him Ted. You’re probably wondering how you get “Ted” from Edwin. Well, here’s the story:

My grandpa was much younger than all of his siblings, and when they brought him home from the hospital, they said he looked like a teddy bear. So they started calling him Teddy. As he got older, it became Ted, and that’s how I always knew him.

(And honestly… why is just writing this making me cry?)

I didn’t get nearly enough time with my grandfather, but I inherited so much of his personality. My foster sister once told me I roared through the house like a lion — loud enough for everyone to hear me no matter where they were. My grandfather was exactly the same way.

He was loud. Passionate. Full of presence.

Most of my memories of him are in the kitchen cooking, or sitting around talking with his best friend Lou Allen and another man whose name I can’t quite remember right now. I’ll have to ask my sister — her memory is solid.

I know my grandfather loved me. He used to call me his “little button.” He’d hug me so tight his whiskers would scratch my face.

At night, he’d sneak into the kitchen, grab my grandmother, and smother her with hugs and kisses. She’d act annoyed, but I think secretly she loved every second of it.

Toward the end of his life, when he needed something, he would pound on the wall and my grandmother would come running to help him.

As the years went on, his health got worse.

When he was younger, he went to church faithfully and even taught Sunday school. He knew scripture so well. He also played the piano, although after his mother died, he stopped completely. He never played for me, and for some reason that makes me sad.

Apparently his mother forced him to play growing up, and he hated it.

He was incredibly smart — a jack of all trades. He would try to help me with my homework, but he overexplained everything to the point I would completely tune out.

He worked in the Navy, he fixed things.He worked on electrical equipment in the Navy — at least I think that’s what he did. I know he fixed things and worked with equipment, but honestly, they never shared a lot of those details with me. I do know being away at sea and living in the cramped quarters was really hard on him. He hated it.

Someone in the family can probably correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s the way I remember hearing it.

What I do know is that while he was away, he and my grandmother wrote letters back and forth constantly. I still have many of those old letters today.

He even wrote a book about his experiences, but I never got to read it. Somewhere along the way, as technology changed and computers were replaced, it was lost.

And honestly, that makes me sad too. Because I think there are probably so many parts of him I never really got the chance to know.

After retiring from Mare Island, he became a bus driver. I remember going on the bus with him a few times when I was little while my grandma had doctor appointments or errands to run.

Both my grandparents were extremely artistic. He painted, and I still have a few of his paintings today. One of them is a painting of a little girl on a swing — one of the last paintings he ever did. He hated it because he said he could never get her face right.

For some reason, I always felt like that little girl was me.

I remember going to road shows with them where they sold paintings, clocks, 3D pictures, and music boxes to make extra income. Those are some of my favorite memories — my grandparents working side by side, doing what they loved together.

Although I’ve never really LOVED ice cream, that was his treat of choice. After every road show, baptism, or just to get out of the house, we’d go get ice cream. Fentons was the family favorite.

At one point, there was an accusation made against my grandfather while he was driving a school bus involving a severely disabled girl. Her mother didn’t like my grandfather, and it was clear the mother pushed the girl to lie about the whole thing. nothing ever came from it because it didn’t happen.

My grandfather had faults, but he would never hurt a child. I know what those kinds of men are like, and he was NOT one of them.

Soon after, he developed a blood clot in his leg and had surgery to remove it. I remember visiting him in the hospital. When he came home, they decided it was probably time for him to find another job.

He became a real estate agent.

We drove around in an old yellow van forever, but once Grandpa started driving clients around, they bought a Volkswagen. They loved that car. I think it was one of the first truly nice things they’d had in a very long time.

Around the time I was entering kindergarten, my grandparents decided to foster another little boy named Christopher. His mother was one of my mom’s friends struggling with addiction. She was going to jail, and Christopher was going to end up in foster care if my grandmother didn’t take him in.

I remember Grandma sitting Alicia and me down and asking if we were okay with bringing a baby into the house.

Heck yes.

You’re probably wondering how they could foster so quickly — but they had been foster parents for years.

Peter was one of their foster children, and one of my grandmother’s biggest regrets was never officially adopting him. I don’t know all the reasons why, but she always said Peter was her son in every way that mattered.

Then there was Uncle Sean, who started as a foster child too, but they eventually adopted him as a baby. Their foster license never lapsed.

I have endless stories about foster kids. Being the oldest, I learned early that this world is full of horrible people.

Christopher’s mom eventually overdosed and died. He was going up for adoption when his aunt stepped in and took him.

That was the first real loss I ever felt.

Even now, I can still picture the pacifier he was sucking on the first day he came to our house. I fell in love with that baby instantly, and losing him was my first true heartbreak.

Steven was another foster child I remember vividly. Peter took it especially hard when Steven left because they had such a strong bond. Steven was adorable but a total pain in the butt. We all loved him deeply.

But somehow I’m telling the wrong story.

This post is supposed to be about my grandfather.

One thing that kept him going for years was genealogy. He spent countless hours researching family history and tracing names. At one point, he even tried to help me find my father.

Maybe somehow he’s the reason I eventually found him later in life.

Unfortunately, it didn’t lead anywhere. My father wanted nothing to do with me. He wouldn’t even speak to me himself — he had his brother handle it.

But my grandfather cared enough to try.

And one thing about my grandpa? He loved Burger King. Every single day he’d go get a Double Whopper with cheese with Lou. They’d sit, talk for hours, and then come home.

That probably didn’t help his health much.

Eventually, he had triple bypass open-heart surgery. At first, everything seemed fine. He woke up and was talking. But because of his weight, they struggled with how to treat him and just kept sedating him over and over.

I remember sitting there holding his hand, telling him how much I loved him, and apologizing for getting pregnant after he had told me it would kill him.

He squeezed my hand.

That was the last response I ever got from him, and I will treasure that moment forever.

Thirty days later, they took him off life support.

The night he died, I was pregnant and at the bowling alley while all of his children were by his side. Today, I still feel like I should have been there too.

And honestly, if I hadn’t been pregnant, I probably would have been.

My grandmother blamed me for his death for years. His heart attack happened the day after Christmas, and I had announced my pregnancy on Thanksgiving.

But Grandpa forgave me the moment he squeezed my hand, it took grandma a little longer~

Guys, if you can somehow see me typing this from heaven, know that I love you both so incredibly much. I miss you every single day.

Grandpa, when I look at Devun, I think of you often. I know he has your good looks.

Grandma, I hope you can see my caring heart, i know i get that from you!

I love these kids so much, and I would not be who I am today without either of you.

(it took me two days to write this. i have so much more to say, but tears keep stopping me! i have to go to work, i am sure i will add later)

Jenn~