His dark hands shone like weathered bronze, each year of his life etched into the lines around his knuckles. Always carrying a tool - a hatchet, a hammer, a bible - his mischievous smile and twinkling eyes let you know he was up to something, but that you were safe. That bald head with a dark, circular mole above his right eye that I called his ‘chocolate chip’, his pockets full of candy, arms full of strength, assurance, and unconditional love.
My grandfather, Paul Juhasz, was born on the boat from Hungary in 1912, lived in South Bend and Niles, and died in 1991 when I was fourteen. But that short time I had with him was enough to experience the Core Four values I embrace as my own.
For the first five years of my life, we lived across a looped driveway from one another. He would gather me in a daily embrace, smiling when he had a surprise, like a downy grey mouse he’d caught in a corn barrel. Sacrificial love poured out of him in constant acts of service - chopping and gathering wood for our fireplaces, feeding the hens, gathering eggs, making coffee. Even when he was upset with one of his adult children, he would give advice, maybe holler, but still chop and gather their wood.
I learned that love isn’t always soft. Sometimes it brings words necessary to growth, then provides a way to start over. Love doesn’t always mean liking someone. It takes a lot of forgiveness – and sometimes we’ll get burned in the process.
For as long as I can remember, Grandpa drove a rickety brown Ford truck and, if he was driving alone, you’d better believe he’d end up with a passenger because - to my grandmother’s great dismay - Paul picked up every hitchhiker he came across. “WHAT IF THEY ROB YOU!?” was her biggest fear, to which he would calmly reply, “They won’t. I already give them whatever I have in my wallet.”
Kindness flowed out of him. Sure, he was loud, got angry when the car ahead of him drove too slowly, yelled when we did something dangerous – who doesn’t? I learned that we can be kind without being perfect; we can be angry with someone and not denigrate them. If we’re treated poorly, we don’t have to reciprocate.
Paul understood being ‘different’. Even in his late 70s, he still had a thick Hungarian accent. He and his siblings didn’t speak English as children and, with no translators at school, they were surrounded by other kids yet still isolated, passed through each grade just to move them out. Paul taught himself English at home and helped his siblings learn, too.
He didn’t care what color your skin was, where you were born, how much money you had - and even when others around him showed racist or sexist tendencies, Paul made it very clear there was no pedigree required to be part of his life. I learned that our differences make us unique and are to be celebrated.
The most important thing I gleaned from my grandfather’s love, kindness, and acceptance is that we are all included in it. When Paul wasn’t chopping wood, tending his Rhode Island Reds, gathering walnuts, or any of the hundreds of other ways he served people - he was praying. He would fall asleep on his knees sometimes because he insisted on including everyone, even his enemies. Everyone had worth and purpose in his eyes.
Whatever our beliefs, this concept is crucial. I learned that, regardless of disagreements with others, my respect for their humanity should not be diminished, as they are flawed humans just like me. On our worst days, we need the love, kindness, acceptance, and inclusion of others the MOST - so we should give those things to others on their worst days as well.
The impact this man had on me increases the more I reflect on it. Nearing fifty now, I question myself regularly about what sort of legacy I want to leave and how I will pass it on through my writing. While odds are strong that I won’t reach much further than my small hometown of Niles, or perhaps the greater Michiana region – isn’t the impact of love, kindness, acceptance, and inclusion most easily transmitted one-on-one anyhow? And, if I can convince just one person that these Core Four values are important, might they also convince someone else? It’s easy to get frustrated and there are days I want to shove my computer straight off the desk, but this small spark of possibility pushes me to persist. So… here I go.
Wanna come with me?
Music: Johannes Brahms - Hungarian Dance No. 5
