The blur of snowflakes seemed like a shower of stars shining through the high-beams of the old Chrysler mini-van. Looking out the side window I could see only my reflection and a few of the glowing green dials from the radio. It must have been two in the morning. As we raced past a small car that seemed to be snailing along, I looked over to my Grandpa sitting at the helm; he was never one to follow the posted speed limits. “Is this going to work?”

“Yeah it should. We’ll have plenty of time to get their car boosted and warmed up.” He glanced down at the clock-radio. “We have a good two hours before they land.”

I looked forward again. Just on the horizon I could see the steady glow, that hazy light that fights back the darkness around any sprawling cityscape. Set inside the snow blurred glow of the city I could make out, at least I thought I could, the faint green and red lights of a landing plane.

Growing up, and even during the last few days before he died, my Grandpa and I never had all that much to say to one another. I like to think that we both enjoyed the silences. To me they were the kind of silence you can only have when you enjoy the very presence of a person. We could have talked about how our days were, how the weather was, or how this or that was going, but it didn’t matter to either of us. We could sit, he in his large blue recliner and I sprawled out on the floor, watching an episode of M*A*S*H. We were together and that was all that mattered. He wasn’t a quiet man though, far from it. When there was something to say, he said it.

The attendant at the Park n’ Jet opened her frost covered kiosk window as we pulled up, and as my Grandpa rolled down his window to talk, I shivered at feeling the bitter cold of the December night. I rubbed my hands together and stuck them right against the heat vents. “We’re here to boost my daughter’s car for her. She’s about to land.”

“Do you know what lane it’s in?”

“Yeah, she told me the number.”

“All right. Go ahead.” She raised the yellow painted barrier up and out of the way.

“Thank you.” We crept slowly towards the endless rows of ice and snow covered cars.

The role of the navigator is an important one my Grandpa would tell me: “You have to be able to follow the map, see where we are, and let me know where to go.” He and I had gone on quite a few road-trips, and on each one he would hand me the map and leave it up to me to get us there; while he would do the driving. With each passing trip his well trimmed beard would be a little less black and a little more grey, and his eyes a little more tired. As I got older I didn’t have time to sit around watching TV shows, let alone go on road trips. We went places together less and less. I should have done more, but that’s too easy to say now, and too hard to notice when you are young and naive.

“Okay Brendan, try to line up this duct with the oil pan.” He handed me the long galvanized piping. “I’ll get the torch going.”

“Right,” I said.

I struggled to get the pipe, as long as me, to line up under the car as I fought through the deep piles of snow under the engine. Eventually I had the curve at the far end pointing up at the bottom of the oil-pan. My Grandpa came over with the lit butane torch and pointed the flame into the ducting. “Well, . . . let’s see if that works. It shouldn’t take too long for the oil to get warm enough for the engine to turn over,” he said, smiling at me. We climbed back into the van and put the heat on full blast. We had packed a few snacks so we dug into those too. I watched out the window at the torch while trying to coax the straw through the foil hole in my box of apple juice. “Uh oh, the pipe’s melting!”

“Shit!” My Grandpa said and ran out and around to the torch and ducting. He pulled the flame away from the pipe a little bit and it seemed to help right away. He turned and smiled at me through the window with his big toothy grin and raised bushy eyebrows, and went back around to his door.

My Grandpa passed more knowledge to me than I can list, and probably more than I realise. As I think about him those years before he died I can’t help wondering about what I missed, what I ignored, and what I scorned. If only I’d been older, I would have been able to appreciate him more, but wishing, as much as we’d like, doesn’t change the past. What I can do is appreciate him now. I can look and smile at him in his picture amongst the hardcovers on my bookshelf, and see his big grin, kind and sincere eyes, and endless honesty smiling right back at me.

“Should we give it a try?” He asked me as he looked out the window at the frosty car. “It’s been twenty minutes.”

“Sure!”

He got out and walked around and got into the other car. I saw the headlights slowly brighten and then dim quickly as the engine groaned to turn over. My Grandpa came back into the van. “The oil is warm, but we are going to have to boost it.” He looked at me and then the clock, “But we have time, let’s stay warm a while longer.” He smiled and started on his own apple juice box.

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