Adam Tonellato
Leonard Gasperin was my grandfather. He was, without question, the most genuine honest person I have ever met. Hard work and an attention to detail were two of his strongest attributes, only surmounted by his love for play. My grandfather passed away when I was in sixth grade. My most vivid recollections of him were of him pitching me wiffle balls in the backyard at Hay street as a very young child. I used to watch the older cousins blast these pieces of plastic over the carport into the adjacent alley and dream of the day I would send one over.
Early in the mornings I would arrive at his home. Upon passing through the threshold I would take off like a bolt to find him sitting in the kitchen. Appropriately placed in front of his line of sight would be an upright open newspaper that was begging for a three year old to smash for attention. His expression of surprise never disappointed. Through his coffee breath, and the whistle of his hearing aid he would place me on his lap and say, "what are we going to do today?"
He always had time for the grandkids. I spent a lot of time there as a youngster, and have fond memories of eating ice cream on a Saturday night while watching the Cardinals play baseball until my parents came to pick me up.
Leonard loved to work on cars, and moreover, any project mechanical or structural was right in his wheelhouse. Day after day I would sit on his workbench in the garage, and play with the magnets and random tools he would hand me while he repaired an old friend's, or neighbor's vehicle. I still can't be sure, but knowing the kind of person he was, and the stories that I hear, he probably charged little more than the price of parts. He would finish up, and we would wash our hands in the solvent tank only to proceed to the basement laundry room sink for a thorough scrub with lava soap. "Clean hands are very important," he would say.
We spent many an afternoon at the local Pronto auto parts store. He would place me atop a plastic coated cushion that would spin around a stool that was probably 70% covered in automotive fluids and axle grease while he conducted business with the gentleman behind the parts counter. I remained seated, anxiously awaiting the gum from the nearby machine, and the return trip riding in the bed of the early 80s Ford F150 [F100?] truck. "Sit on the wheel well," he would say, "and don't move." 'Don't let grandma see you either' I believe was a common saying.
The man was always occupied with a project. I can recall him doing things like building a cover over his back porch, pouring a new stretch of concrete sidewalk to his garage, roping off the back drive after he had just sealed the asphalt, and tending the garden on the neighbors side of the garage. He would give us things to do like, "drive this nail through this 2 X 4", or "help me look for this [small part] I lost around here by the grass." Alternatively, it never ceased to amaze at how he could walk inside in the late afternoon and take a nap while sitting upright in the worlds largest couch. The pendulum of the clock ticking and the sun glancing off the nearby console tv, I would often find that same spot in the living room to be the most inviting for an afternoon nap as well.
He was a great man. Possibly the greatest. When he became ill I recall being at his home every night for weeks. One of his oldest friends, Dewey Green, commented, "If the tree in the back yard needed cut down tomorrow, I have no doubt that Leonard would be out there." I knew it was true. It gave me hope. The reality was painfully obvious though. One night, as the family was gathered around, Leonard pulled my cousin Chris and I up close to him and said, "Be good to people, like I have been good to you. I love you." We shook our heads in agreement, and told him that we would.
I was too young to recognize the gravity of what was happening that night, but not so naive that I can't to this day say that Leonard Gasperin was born of a generation that truly knew what was valuable. If I should take something from my memories of him on a daily basis, I would hope that it would be to recognize what is truly of value, and to consistently recognize the value of family and hard work.
Early in the mornings I would arrive at his home. Upon passing through the threshold I would take off like a bolt to find him sitting in the kitchen. Appropriately placed in front of his line of sight would be an upright open newspaper that was begging for a three year old to smash for attention. His expression of surprise never disappointed. Through his coffee breath, and the whistle of his hearing aid he would place me on his lap and say, "what are we going to do today?"
He always had time for the grandkids. I spent a lot of time there as a youngster, and have fond memories of eating ice cream on a Saturday night while watching the Cardinals play baseball until my parents came to pick me up.
Leonard loved to work on cars, and moreover, any project mechanical or structural was right in his wheelhouse. Day after day I would sit on his workbench in the garage, and play with the magnets and random tools he would hand me while he repaired an old friend's, or neighbor's vehicle. I still can't be sure, but knowing the kind of person he was, and the stories that I hear, he probably charged little more than the price of parts. He would finish up, and we would wash our hands in the solvent tank only to proceed to the basement laundry room sink for a thorough scrub with lava soap. "Clean hands are very important," he would say.
We spent many an afternoon at the local Pronto auto parts store. He would place me atop a plastic coated cushion that would spin around a stool that was probably 70% covered in automotive fluids and axle grease while he conducted business with the gentleman behind the parts counter. I remained seated, anxiously awaiting the gum from the nearby machine, and the return trip riding in the bed of the early 80s Ford F150 [F100?] truck. "Sit on the wheel well," he would say, "and don't move." 'Don't let grandma see you either' I believe was a common saying.
The man was always occupied with a project. I can recall him doing things like building a cover over his back porch, pouring a new stretch of concrete sidewalk to his garage, roping off the back drive after he had just sealed the asphalt, and tending the garden on the neighbors side of the garage. He would give us things to do like, "drive this nail through this 2 X 4", or "help me look for this [small part] I lost around here by the grass." Alternatively, it never ceased to amaze at how he could walk inside in the late afternoon and take a nap while sitting upright in the worlds largest couch. The pendulum of the clock ticking and the sun glancing off the nearby console tv, I would often find that same spot in the living room to be the most inviting for an afternoon nap as well.
He was a great man. Possibly the greatest. When he became ill I recall being at his home every night for weeks. One of his oldest friends, Dewey Green, commented, "If the tree in the back yard needed cut down tomorrow, I have no doubt that Leonard would be out there." I knew it was true. It gave me hope. The reality was painfully obvious though. One night, as the family was gathered around, Leonard pulled my cousin Chris and I up close to him and said, "Be good to people, like I have been good to you. I love you." We shook our heads in agreement, and told him that we would.
I was too young to recognize the gravity of what was happening that night, but not so naive that I can't to this day say that Leonard Gasperin was born of a generation that truly knew what was valuable. If I should take something from my memories of him on a daily basis, I would hope that it would be to recognize what is truly of value, and to consistently recognize the value of family and hard work.
