From the MySpace
If you've seen my not exactly detailed profile, you will have seen that my Grandfather has been noted in the "heroes" section. On April 1st, 2001, he passed due to complications related to a stroke he had. I note this now, instead of on April 1st or just prior, because people simply would take it as something that's a part of the holiday. I could do the informing people thing, but past experience has only shown that it opens the door for disrespect. It was bad timing is all. I don't play the April Fool jokes anymore (mind you, I don't mind getting pranked on). I was twice denied the trip to visit his grave by my father. Odd in that I'm driving now, but not in California. Not exactly a trip I can make anymore. On top of that, my folks were out on the road for their job. So this year, it felt somewhat empty... well, no, just nobody to reflect on it with.
The thing about this year is that in 2001, April 1st was also on a Sunday. I remember getting the call from my brother Phillip at about, oh, 11:00 that morning, informing me that grandpa passed at about 10:00. Erik took it hard as I had to tell him while holding the phone still. We all took it hard. It's not something easily forgotten.
Although I've come to loath living at home once again, there is something novel about it. It's having conversations with my mother, and figuring out more about her than what childhood perceptions picked up (not to mention slander from my father, though, slander goes both ways in a divorce). Whenever my mom speaks of grandpa, it's always a happy tone. She adored him. She was close to him. She's shown me a few keepsakes she has from him, one of which is a small house he carved out of styrofoam (forgive my spelling) the day the family met Doug, my aunt's now husband. Like Carlos said at the funeral, mom relayed to me that grandpa understood English more than he let on. He understood it perfectly, actually, and knew how to speak it, but had something about being embarassed about it. So Portuguese was how he talked, though to us kids, he spoke in mixed English and Portuguese. I never learned the other language, but growing up around it you just caught on to things being said and knew what was being said. I heard stories of them living on the islands, how grandpa tended the farm, built things around the house. She told me of how grandpa loved to be the life of a party, which is what he was out doing the night he had the stroke. Ah ha, she even mentioned how he once partially dressed as a woman for laughs.
He got our family here to the States (mind you, my brothers and I were born here). We owe him a lot, and the only way we can pay that is to live our lives well. Y'know, honor his memory and efforts. I loved my grandpa and still do.
The thing about this year is that in 2001, April 1st was also on a Sunday. I remember getting the call from my brother Phillip at about, oh, 11:00 that morning, informing me that grandpa passed at about 10:00. Erik took it hard as I had to tell him while holding the phone still. We all took it hard. It's not something easily forgotten.
Although I've come to loath living at home once again, there is something novel about it. It's having conversations with my mother, and figuring out more about her than what childhood perceptions picked up (not to mention slander from my father, though, slander goes both ways in a divorce). Whenever my mom speaks of grandpa, it's always a happy tone. She adored him. She was close to him. She's shown me a few keepsakes she has from him, one of which is a small house he carved out of styrofoam (forgive my spelling) the day the family met Doug, my aunt's now husband. Like Carlos said at the funeral, mom relayed to me that grandpa understood English more than he let on. He understood it perfectly, actually, and knew how to speak it, but had something about being embarassed about it. So Portuguese was how he talked, though to us kids, he spoke in mixed English and Portuguese. I never learned the other language, but growing up around it you just caught on to things being said and knew what was being said. I heard stories of them living on the islands, how grandpa tended the farm, built things around the house. She told me of how grandpa loved to be the life of a party, which is what he was out doing the night he had the stroke. Ah ha, she even mentioned how he once partially dressed as a woman for laughs.
He got our family here to the States (mind you, my brothers and I were born here). We owe him a lot, and the only way we can pay that is to live our lives well. Y'know, honor his memory and efforts. I loved my grandpa and still do.