Tiger Head
in honor of my grandfather's 95th birthday
The origin of the moniker “Tiger Head” is lost to family legend.
That might be for the best. It allows us all to conjure our own colorful, exotic rationale to explain why my grandfather has taken on the title.
For example:
It was that tiger he encountered on some foreign exploit when he was a young man—saw it there in the enemy forest. Locked eyes with it, even. It growled at him; he scowled back. Gave it one of those classic, “I’ll be damned if you think you’re taking my spot at this slot machine,” looks—and would you guess what? The beast just trotted off! Slinking into the shadows, rightfully shamed.
No—wait. Maybe the tiger was at the casino itself. My grandfather was attending a magic show, and it got loose. Screams, cries, chaos. It came after some innocent in the crowd—all teeth and claw and glistening eyes—and my grandfather quite literally locked heads with it, knocked the thing to the ground. Grabbed its bulging neck with his bare hands, as the crowd looked on, cheering, my grandmother, smiling and shaking her head. “Jebbie, take it easy.”
No, no. That can’t be right. He got the name from his shopping savvy—they called him a tiger on the prowl when he stepped into a store. No deal was safe. The man knew how to stretch a buck—like a tiger stripe!—and he’d hunt each aisle until his prey was in hand. He’d bare his teeth in a big grin. “I got ‘em, Dolly,” he’d say to my grandmother. She’d smile again, shake her head.
We walk the line between fact and legend, foggy memory and hoped-for truth. My grandfather served his time abroad and loves his time at the casino and is never one to pass on a bargain. And he loved my grandmother; she loved him. But the story itself—the true story—is something more like this:
Some family event. All of us grandkids running out to greet our grandparents. My grandfather somewhat flustered as he tries to get out of his car. In his haste earns himself a bruised forehead. “I got this big ol’ tiger head,” he growls, ducking as he wobbles to his feet.
And it stuck—that’s the story. Tiger Head.
My grandfather and I used to wrestle. I was much younger—4, 5-years old—and so was he. He’d arrive at our home in California, making the long journey with my grandmother from New Jersey to the West Coast. And I’d see him, little me, and shriek: “Let’s wrestle!”
He was a big guy, tough, that same huge, sheepish smile. He didn’t always let me win. And I would’ve sworn he could’ve taken down a tiger.
He turns 95 today. We’ll gather as we always do to celebrate him. Those memories of a young man are increasingly clouded; he doesn’t prowl many shops any more—he has a hard enough time getting out of his chair—though he still loves a bargain, and he still loves winning at the casino.
So many of those past stories—the truth, adorned in honest-to-god facts—have faded. But there are moments still when his mind bursts into sudden sharpness, when something within him crystalizes, brushes aside the stroke, the unresolved trauma, the never-ending grief over my grandmother’s passing. When he grins, shakes his head, scowls.
That’s when we see it. The Tiger Head. Sure, he bumped that big skull of his on the roof of his car once. But I swear, the man I knew—the man I know—he’s taken down some tigers. Wrestled them to the ground with his bare hands. And he’d do it again.
And another thing:
Wanna read about my pet hedgehog? Sure you do. Want me to draw out a spiritual insight from aforementioned hedgehog? Now you’re really intrigued. Go ahead—give it a read.