I recall several incidents of Grandpa's "cool," a couple of which I will share here.
The first one was the time that Grandpa had to dump an entire
truckful of corn into the big silo. Brian and I were about 9 years old, and perhaps sensing an opportunity for a couple of city kids that may never come again, he allowed us to get into the back of the truck and immerse ourselves in the entire load of kernels.
The truck was HUGE, or so it seemed to us, as we could bury ourselves up to our necks in the stuff. We got corn in our shoes, socks, shirts, and were covered in dirt, but we'd never had so much fun before. I think it was the first time I realized that a grandparent could be "cool."
Incident number 2:
In the summer of 1979 I was 15 years old, and had gotten my driver's permit just a few months before (in January). We made our annual trip to Auburn in August, which was always the highlight of the year for us three Dean kids; an added benefit for me that year was being able to drive around town and at the farm. Not by myself, of course, but with Grandma or Grandpa riding shotgun, ready to take over and save us all if needed.
Grandma was always patient with me, but visibly skittish, as one would expect with a brand new driver at the wheel. Grandpa, however, was his usual calm self, only offering occasional helpful suggestions like "use your directional here," or "turn on your brights at the turn." His calm demeanor made me more at ease myself, and conveyed a wonderful sense of trust in my still-developing skills as a young driver.
We drove his pickup truck a lot around the farm, occasionally going over ditches and through ravines, where he showed me how to use the 4-wheel drive and how to use the manual shift when I needed to. We went up and down the roads, running interference for farm equipment, and doing the myriad other things that I could never experience on the roads back in southern California. I remember his advice to stay as far to the right of the road as I could when we neared the top of a crest, and then to return to the middle of the road when we reached downhill or flat ground. It was invaluable instruction.
To the coolness part... We were driving around near the goat 80, me at the wheel, and him checking some figures on a sheet of paper. I guess he was doing some kind of cattle count, I don't know, but whatever it was, he was doing his job, and I was doing mine. At one odd turn, I managed to drive us into a closed-off section just past a large tree, where I stopped the truck in front of a fence. I could go no further forward, and the tree was partly blocking my way out from behind. I could not turn around, as there was no room. I had "wedged" us into this spot, and to make matters worse, there was mud underneath the tires, making it rather slippery.
I put the truck in park. A little embarrassed, I said, "I think we're stuck, Grandpa. How do I get out of here?"
He looked up from his sheet of paper, rolled his window down, stuck his head out, and briefly surveyed the situation.
"Yep," he said, "you've got a problem," and continued on with his paper full of cow figures.
That was it. No instructions on how to get out, no advice, no suggestions, nothing. And, just as importantly, no anger, no admonishments, and no judgment, either. Just me in the driver's seat, and him with his paper of numbers. He'd already told me everything I needed to know over the previous three days that I'd been driving, and he was content to let me work this one out for myself.
Which I did. With liberal use of the 4-wheel drive, and several (hundred) shifts from reverse to drive to reverse again, I managed to extricate us from the muddy dead end and get us back onto the blessed gravel road.
He never said a word about it, and didn't need to. But as a brand new driver, that was probably the most pride I'd ever felt in my own abilities, like a 4-year-old who has just learned to tie his own shoes. I did it All By Myself, and I had Grandpa to thank for it.
That, to me, was the very essence of cool.
