We're Off to See the Wizard . . .

No, not the wonderful Wizard of Oz, but my maternal grandfather who is turning 90 years old on Saturday. We are flying tomorrow and spending a long weekend with my beloved family. All I can say is that I am kind of glad my brother and sister-in-law are not going to be there. I had enough of them last month.

Anyway, my cousins and I referred to my grandfather as the Wizard of Oz for many years when we were kids. He doesn't so much look like the Wizard of Oz, but he behaved like him when we were little. In some ways, my grandfather was the least "grandparenty" of my grandparents. He was not fond of little children and much preferred to work instead of do grandkid stuff. (My mother has confirmed that he was like this when she was a child as well.)

In the three houses my grandparents lived in that I remember from my childhood, my grandfather always had the largest room as his "library" which was wall-to-wall dark bookcases, maroon velvet curtains, and dark oriental rugs. He could most often be seen sitting behind his giant desk working. As kids, we were never allowed into his library, unless we were bringing him a message from my grandmother that it was time for him to make the before dinner cocktails. Even then, we were only allowed to walk into the room in stocking feet - no shoes and no bare feet.

Being the oldest, I often was elected to go into the library and tell him the message. Even on weekends, he wore white shirts and bowties (he always wore bowties, I have never seen him in a long tie) and dress pants. He would look at me over his reading glasses and invite me to come closer. After telling him the message, he would pat me on the shoulder and say, "Tell her I'll be right there." That was my cue to leave the room.

So, to my cousins and I, he was like the Wizard of Oz - separate, mysterious, and powerful. It was clear everyone in my family viewed him as the supreme head of the family. When my grandfather talked, you stopped talking and you listened. Babies were removed from the room if they were noisy. Children were sent outside. Adult guests were not invited back if they were discourteous to my grandfather. (Unless, of course, if they married into the family . . . then they were tolerated.)

He ruled from his spot at the head of the dining room table. All table manners had to be observed when he was around. No one ate until his plate was full. No one drank until he had taken his first sip. No one else gave a toast until he had given a toast. I remember being glad the kids' table was at the opposite end of the room from him.

I don't mean to convey that my grandfather was mean or that their house was so staid and dim. Some of my best memories come from their house and of the wild dinner parties they threw. Adults getting too drunk (my family still tells the story of the nuns who were too drunk to drive home from one of their parties), people telling off-color stories, singing drinking songs, doing shots, playing charades or cards, and becoming weepy when singing the Wiffenpoof Song.

As I became an adult, my view of him changed. He became more interested in what I had to say and I became more interested in him. We have a very close relationship and I am amazingly lucky to have him still with me at the age of 90. For the last 20 years, he has been working on the "Family History" and writing down the history of his family and my grandmother's family. Because so much of our family history took place in Sweden, it would have been lost to us but for his determined effort to chronicle it.

Anyway, to honor my grandfather, I hope we sing this song at the end of his 90th birthday party on Saturday. Here it is:

The Whiffenpoof Song (start with glasses raised)

To the tables down at Mory's,
To the place where Louis dwells,
To the dear old Temple Bar
We love so well,

Sing the Whiffenpoofs assembled
With their glasses raised on high,
And the magic of their singing casts its spell.

Yes, the magic of their singing
Of the songs we love so well:
"Shall I, Wasting" and "Mavourneen" and the rest.

We will serenade our Louis
While life and voice shall last
Then we'll pass and be forgotten with the rest.

(Now glasses are put down, everyone joins hands, and sways in time with the music)

We are poor little lambs
Who have lost our way.
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We are little black sheep
Who have gone astray.
Baa! Baa! Baa!

Gentlemen songsters off on a spree
Damned from here to eternity
God have mercy on such as we.
Baa! Baa! Baa!