Looking at this picture, the following statement might surprise you. My grandfather, Chester Sycks, who passed away early this morning at the age of 87, was a total bad ass.
When my grandfather worked in the offices of the Firestone Tire and Rubber Company, he had an arrangement with the waitress at his favorite lunch spot. When she saw him pull into the parking lot, she would call over her shoulder to the cook, saying, “Put on a burger, Chet’s here.”
That way Grandpa’s burger--his extremely well done burger--would be ready when he settled in. His favorite lunch, at his favorite lunch spot, exactly when he wanted it, exactly the way he wanted it, all without exchanging a single word.
Grandpa related this story (which he told me...many times) with such pride, his storytelling imbibed with such flare and self-satisfaction that you might think he was telling you about the time he saved a busload of schoolchildren from drowning or won the Nobel Prize in physics. To him, it was a crowning achievement. This Zen-like, no-nonsense, wordless example of simplicity, perfection, and efficiency in the form of a working man’s lunch.
Grandpa was a quiet man, devoted to being a meticulous rule and routine follower. He had deeply ingrained and deliberate ways of doing just about everything. Every day was more or less the same. Get up (late), go to Burger King for a danish and cup of coffee, then hit the post office, grocery/pharmacy, and library (to make copies). Same deal. Every day. This routine was so ingrained for so long that when he was hospitalized for a heart attack in 1992, the morning crew at Burger King sent him get well cards.
He had plenty of other unique characteristics. Whenever traveling more than 20 miles from home, he would load his car full of enough emergency gear to make a survivalist blush. He was retired before he tried any flavor of ice cream other than vanilla. He also never wore shorts until he was in his 70s, then would only buy them from one store...in New Jersey. He used to eat mashed potatoes by dividing the mound into neat squares, consumed one at a time. He was known to put a lamp in his yard so he could mow the grass at night. He was a huge fan of Ohio State football and attended every home game for years even though he had no connection to Ohio State nor any real interest in football (and when attending the games, would stay in the same hotel--in the same room--each time).
When Grandpa found something he liked, he stuck with it. This is why he drove a blue 1987 Caprice Classic--three of them. Not updated models--but the exact same model, color, and same year, bought over and over again until he simply couldn’t find another blue 1987 Caprice Classic. (At one point, he had a spare 1987 Caprice Classic in the driveway, waiting for the then-current car to expire.)
And this is all just tapping the surface.
You see, the important thing to know about Grandpa is that he wasn’t a rule follower because people told him what to do. Grandpa did all these things because he believed that they were the right thing to do. The smart way to do them. The good thing to do. He was less concerned with what others thought than being steadfast in doing what he thought was right. He was uncompromising. He may have had a lot of them, but Grandpa lived by his own rules. And that is what made him so bad ass.
I think what drove my Grandfather was that he wanted to protect and provide for his family. Growing up during the depression, he wanted to be thrifty and prudent. He wanted to be the one who could help in any situation. The person that could always be depended on. He thrived on that.
But, with these important qualities noted, he was also a fantastically peculiar dude.
During our annual vacation, Grandpa would go “prospecting” with his metal detector on Long Beach Island. He would spend all day combing the beach, just to come back at the end of the day with 37 cents, a rusty screw, and a video game token. Regardless, he was always so pleased with himself and would regale us with the exploits of finding his treasures. He did this all day, every day of vacation.
One evening he came home and told us that a couple of bikini-clad young girls had come up to him on the beach and asked for his help in locating some lost keys. He took his detector and found the keys pretty quickly. They were so happy that they all gave him hugs and invited him to hang out with them for the afternoon and attend a party with a group of their friends. They even offered him a beer, which he declined.
After hearing this, I thought there was no way this story could be a true...until the next night. I was sent out on the beach to find him for dinner. As the two of us walked back to the house, we passed a beach front bar. One very tan young man looked over at us and said, "Hey, it's Chet!!!" Then he and his friends all let out a loud cheer...for my Grandpa.
I will miss him terribly, but I’m also happy for him. His suffering is over, he has moved on to a place where everything is bright and clear. There are thousands of dollars in coins under the sandy beaches.
I imagine that shortly after he died, Grandpa quietly strolled up to the pearly gates. I’d like to think that once Saint Peter noticed him there, neither of them said a word. Saint Peter simply called out over his shoulder, “Put on a burger, Chet’s here.”
