My Grandfather's Potential

By the time I was old enough to remember, my maternal grandfather was already a veteran "grandpa," and it seemed as though he had never been anything else.
Most of my memories of him involve him being scolded severely by my grandmother.

He would open something that looked delicious all by himself and get scolded with, "In times like these, you should offer some to others," he would open a rice cracker just as dinner was called and get scolded for his poor timing, he would pass gas while walking and get scolded for being gross, and if he stood up to finish his own chores and came back, he would get scolded with, "Can't you be thoughtful enough to ask if anyone else needs anything done?"
However, I never once saw him look dejected after being scolded.
No matter how much he was scolded, he would admire her, saying, "Heh, Mutsu-ko, you're so observant," and no matter how many times he was scolded, he would forget it, repeat the same thing, and get scolded even more harshly.
My father, who was born and raised in a household that prioritized the father, was apparently stunned by the fragility of my grandfather's position when he first married my mother.

He's not going to change even if you tell him, so Grandma should just stop getting angry.

I thought that many times and even told my grandmother, but she would enthusiastically scold him, saying, "If I don't say anything, he'll just get worse."
My grandmother, who always stood straight with her well-groomed white hair tied up high, and my chubby grandfather, who loved watching baseball on TV alone or playing shogi against the newspaper, looked like a very mismatched couple in the eyes of their grandchild.

That grandmother passed away from pancreatic cancer in the winter of the year I was a ronin student.
She passed away right between my entrance exams, as if she had aimed for it, and we held the funeral between the exams.

When I went to my aunt's house, who had been caring for my grandmother, right after finishing my exams, there were many shocking pink and white round cylinders placed around the mouth of my grandmother, from whom life had just departed.
Seeing the red and white atmosphere, I asked, "Who decorated this to look so festive?" and my uncle, who usually lives in Las Vegas, said, "Me, me. Mom loved those marshmallows."
My uncle, who is a chef at a casino, treated us to tacos, and the room was filled with a spicy aroma.

"Since we won't be able to sleep anyway," my uncle took on the role of keeping the candle lit, but in the middle of the night, I heard him and my aunt arguing in whispers.
Apparently, my uncle had tried to pour wine into my grandmother's mouth and was caught by my aunt and scolded; my uncle, who was already drunk, complained, "If we cremate her, I won't be able to drink with Mom anymore." Well, that's true, but still.

On the day of the funeral, the relatives were unusually lively. My uncle tried to take home white flowers from my grandmother's coffin as a memento but was stopped, my aunt swung the hammer with the intensity of someone driving a five-inch nail into a straw doll when nailing the coffin shut, shocking the funeral staff, my mother, who found it funny, laughed loudly, "Ho ho ho ho," and my autistic younger brother started dancing enthusiastically to the monk's wooden drum.
Even though they are my own family, I secretly wondered, what is wrong with these people?

In such a situation, my grandfather seemed as calm as ever.
He ate well and drank well, and every time my grandmother's friends and acquaintances came to pay their respects, he would lightly raise his hand and nod, saying, "Oh, oh."
My mother and the others were worried about my grandfather's life after my grandmother's death, but he firmly refused to live with his children and decided to live alone in the one-story house in Saitama that he was used to.

A while later, my mother visited my grandfather's house and returned surprised, saying that my grandfather had acquired an unbelievable level of life skills.
Cooking, laundry, cleaning.
It seems my grandfather had mastered quite a bit of what my grandmother had been doing alone until then.
Perhaps he had been preparing to live alone while my grandmother was hospitalized or had moved to my aunt's house.
My mother was shocked that he had made her simmered pumpkin and curry, even though he shouldn't have ever cooked before.

A few years later, my grandfather achieved further evolution.
He didn't just make what he would eat that day; he started pickling cucumbers and even making pickled plums using plums harvested in the garden. Even my grandmother hadn't done that. Even I, who make miso and maintain a rice bran bed, have never pickled plums.
Unlike a rice bran bed that can be used semi-permanently once created, pickled plums require quite a process of harvesting, salting, and sun-drying every year.

My grandfather's pickled plums are not the kind of soft ones that fall apart when pressed with your tongue. They are truly homemade pickled plums, packed with firm flesh, with a sourness and saltiness that pierces your brain. But this relentless sourness becomes addictive.
When I said, "Delicious!" he started packing homemade pickled plums in Ziploc bags for us to take home every time we visited.

The grandfather who was scolded so much by my grandmother for not being thoughtful!

When we celebrated my grandfather's 90th birthday at a super sento, he finished a salmon plate with fifteen-grain rice and white wine sauce.
He kept shouting, "This red rice and salmon set meal is delicious!!" and after licking the sauce on the salmon, he muttered, "This isn't just grilled with salt. I wonder how they make it."
In my memory, my grandfather had always been a glutton, but I had never seen him interested in how things were made.
Being interested in how to make something is likely a sign of his intention to make it himself.
If I give him a recipe book, he might even try his hand at fancy cooking.

Ten years have passed since my grandmother died.
Watching my grandfather continue to make remarkable progress, I think.
Wasn't it my grandmother who believed in my grandfather's potential more than anyone else?
It would be impossible to keep scolding him so persistently if she didn't believe in his potential.
When I told my mother that, she laughed and said, "Maybe she was just relieving stress?" so I don't know the truth.
I can't help but wish he had done the housework while my grandmother was still alive.
However, I also think that if he had actively helped, he would have just gotten in the way of my grandmother's preferences and been scolded, so maybe it was good that he awakened at this timing.
In the end, time doesn't turn back, and the living have no choice but to move forward.

My grandfather turned 92 this year.
It seems he goes to a day service center from time to time.
In the photo he showed me proudly, my grandfather was standing firmly next to an old man holding a plate that said "Happy Birthday." When I asked, "The birthday person is not Grandpa, but the old man holding this plate, right...?" he nodded. Clearly, my grandfather stands out more than the "Happy Birthday" old man.
When I asked, "Who is this person? A friend?" he said, "I don't know that old man. I was just walking around and he suddenly grabbed me and said, 'Let's take a picture together.'"
If my grandmother were here, she would have immediately scolded him, saying, "Don't call him 'that old man I don't know'!"
We just quietly repeated, "That old man you don't know."