My grandfather said the words “I love you” to me on two occasions, at my wedding and near the end. If you had approached me when I was a kid and asked me whether he loved me, then I would have probably looked at you as though you were asking me whether the sun was warm.
They didn’t hand out words to us, this generation. They embodied love with many small acts. They left it to you to interpret their language.
It took me years to realize I was fluent in it the whole time. Here are twenty-one ways he said it without ever saying it.
He Warmed Up the Car First
Each cold morning, Grandpa started the car ten minutes before anyone else was up. By the time we got in, Grandpa had warmed up the car and defrosted the windows. He never mentioned it, he never took credit, and he never missed a morning. That was the first sentence of his love language. I would not read that sentence until decades later.
The Peppermints in His Pocket
He always had butterscotch and peppermints in his coat pockets, and they were for us. He’d palm one over during church, or whenever we took the long haul on a car ride. He never ate them himself, and that is who the pockets were stocked for. A man who carries candy for grandchildren is saying something out loud.
Call Me When You Get Home
Every time, he always said our six words at the door. He wouldn’t sit until he heard the phone and confirmed the road had let us pass. I thought for years it was a rule. But I realize now that was the closest he could come to saying I cannot bear the thought of losing you in front of company.
He Fixed Things Before You Asked
You’d probably mention a wobbly table leg or a bike chain in passing, and by the time you’d come back he had it fixed. He never announced it, you just noticed the wobble was gone. His toolbox was the thing that did the talking instead of his mouth. A good chunk of my childhood was held together by his handiwork, and honestly, so was the other half.
Your Drawings Lived in His Toolbox
One time I opened the top tray of his toolbox looking for a screwdriver and found a folded crayon drawing I had given him years before. It was soft at the creases from all the times he had opened and closed it. He must have kept it for all this time without telling me. I think the men who say the least might save the most.
He Watched Until the Car Was Out of Sight
Each time he stood in the driveway or at the window, one hand raised, not waiving hard but maintaining that position. Look back a quarter mile and he was still standing there. It felt like nothing then, and it feels like everything now.
Did You Eat?
In three words, this was his hello, his how are you, and his I have been worried about you. If the answer was no, food would appear, and there would be no discussion about it. He would ask it on the phone, he would ask it at the door, he would even ask it at the hospital, near the end. Feeding you was the only way he could show tenderness that no one could tease him about.
The Garden Tomatoes He Saved for You
The best tomatoes never made it onto his own sandwiches. Instead, they went into a paper bag with your name on it, ready for the taking at the door. The same fate suffered the first strawberries and the sweet, sweet corn. He tended his own garden, but everything in it seemed to have somebody else’s name on it. That bag of tomatoes was a love letter that needed salt.
He Showed Up Early to Everything of Yours
He was always there: before the stands filled for ball games, held up the side of the audience for recitals, and sat in the back for graduation. He was never going to be the loud one or the center of attention, though when you wanted to find him, he was there every time. He was never once late with his presence.
He Let You Have the Good Chair
Everyone knew Grandpa’s chair was his recliner, and everyone knew that if one of the grandchildren so desired, he or she could promptly usurp him of his seat with no issues. Grandpa would, quite sheepishly, abscond to the couch. The real metaphor here is the king giving up the throne to a seven-year-old. It’s a larger statement than it appears. It was not until I had a chair of my own that I could properly view this in perspective.
Saw This and Thought of You
He included articles about your team, comics you enjoyed, and a photo of a dog like yours. He even brought copies of the newspaper to your Sunday dinners. He would slip them into envelopes, sometimes he would just pass them to you directly. It was proof you crossed his mind on ordinary days. I’d gladly trade a stack of hundreds of texts for one more clipping.
He Taught You Slow, Without Sighing
He did it all at the speed that you learned it. If you messed something up, all you got was, “Try it again.” No sigh and no taking over. His patience said you are worth my whole afternoon. Some men teach you what they know, and some teach you what you are capable of. He was definitely the latter.
The Handshake That Turned Into a Hug
Around your teens, his goodbye handshake developed a shoulder tap. Not long after, he pulled you in for the handshake. He never quite got the hang of the hug, but he never passed one up. Watching a man overrule his own upbringing for you is a whole sermon on love.
Your Bike Tires Were Always Pumped
You never saw him do it, but your bike at his house always had pumped tires and an oiled chain. His wagon went in a straight line. His sleds had runners that had been waxed. Someone maintained your childhood in the garage before you even woke up. It was him, and he would have denied it under oath.
He Made a Quiet Fuss Over Your Report Card
That was not his way. He did not gush. He read the report card line by line, as if it was a contract. He then nodded and said something like well now, that is fine work. This was then placed on the refrigerator or filed away in the drawer with his important papers. Receiving the honor of being filed away with his other important papers was the highest honor his house could award.
The Dollar in Your Pocket
Goodbyes would come with a dollar bill folded in your palm, and a twenty when you were older and a broke college student. No need to tell Grandma, he would say, while she pretended to be clueless. It was never about the amount. It was his way of making the road a little easier for you than it was for him.
Be Careful Meant Everything
He said be careful the way other men say goodbye, automatically and every time. Be careful on the roads. Be careful with that saw. Be careful out there. It was easy to take it as fussing. It was actually the entire burden of his worry, condensed into the only two words that could express it with dignity.
He Handed You the Tools
It took longer for him to do it by himself, but he still called you over. Hold this. Now hand me that. Finally, you tightened it. You thought you helped him with every repair; that was the goal. He wasn’t working to fix the faucet, he was attempting to construct a person.
The Nickname Only He Used
The name he gave you was never used by anyone else, and he never let anyone else use it. It’s probably from when you were a kid, and even though you have your own kids now, he’s never stopped using it. I have not heard mine in years, and I would pay anything to have him say it at least one time.
He Asked You to Ride Along
Riding along was a chance to experience the hardware, feed, and dump stores, which were bland destinations. The errand was usually just an excuse to spend a few hours with him in the truck with his stories, a radio, and quiet intervals. A lot of men can’t say let’s spend some time together so they say want to ride along.
He Bragged About You, Just Never to You
You got a nod for your accomplishments, but aunts and neighbors reported he said nice things about you constantly. He talked about everything you did. He talked about your grades, your job, your kids. You were apparently the front page news everywhere you were not. He kept the praise one room away so it would not go to your head, and he kept the pride everywhere he went.
