A Perfectly Cromulent Blog

"The Rock" - 1919 - 2007

It pains me that I have to begin this with a disclaimer, but I suppose I need to point out that this entry is not, in fact, about ex-wrestler Dwayne Johnson.

I just returned from the funeral of Alvin Joseph Vonder Haar, my paternal grandfather. It was in St. Louis, where he lived the entirety of his life (aside from a stint in the Army during WWII), and was well-attended by family and friends.

Eulogies always start the same way: the speaker goes to great length to convince the assembled of what a remarkable life the deceased led. Grandpa would've been the first to call bullshit on that, and it's emblematic of both the time and manner in which he was raised that he'd do so. I'm probably not objective in this case, but these are the facts: he was a soldier in the United States Army, an officer in the St. Louis Police Department, and a truck and armored car driver. In addition, and no less impressive, he was a husband, a father who raised six children, and a grandfather (and great-grandfather) besides.

It was obviously for this last achievement that I remember him best. We spent countless Christmases at Grandma and Grandpa's house on Sweet Gum Drive, sleeping in their finished basement next to the old potbellied stove and - for a time - my uncle's drum kit (which ultimately helped me realize my aptitude lay with the wind family of instruments). He was never less than indulgent with his grandkids, whether allowing us to shoot BB guns in the backyard, or paying us bounties for the houseflies we killed on the patio so we could go to the convenience store across the street and play Galaga (and so he could enjoy a cigar in peace). He also famously tolerated a certain 7-year old nerd's insistence on dressing like Superman to fight the menace of - no shit - "Supertoe" (Grandpa had freakishly prehensile feet).

I could tell you about his marriage to my grandmother, which lasted almost 70 years and taught me a lot about how to make one work. I could also tell you about the time he and a high school buddy decided to hop a train to South America (Grandpa's knowledge of global geography was a little lacking in his early days), culminating in his getting shot by the Missouri State Police. Maybe you'd be interested to know that he was a voracious bookworm, often reading three at once. Or how about how he earned his nickname? "A.J." was known to frequent a certain bar after a long day driving trucks, and - like so many in his family - was also known to run his mouth rather loudly after having a few. One night, some fellow he antagonized took it poorly and sucker-punched him in the jaw. Grandpa just laughed at him, and he was known as "The Rock" from that day on.

I'm a lucky man in a lot of ways, not the least of which is in getting the opportunity to know all four of my grandparents well into adulthood (The Wife, by comparison, barely knew two of hers). The only downside is how much it hurts when they're gone.

Ultimately, no one ever wins at life. You may be up for a while, but in the end, the house always collects. At the very least, I'm pretty sure Grandpa came out even. I'm pretty sure of that.

Rest in peace, pal.

The Rock and She Who Shall Not Be Named - Christmas, 2004