How I spent my Christmas Vacation.
About 11pm on Christmas Eve, not quite 24 hours ago (from when i started writing this), my grandfather finished fighting a losing battle against cancer. He slipped away quietly in his sleep, about 12 hours after his son, my father, had said his final words to his dad...and they put him in a chemically induced artificial coma.
He was a good man, my grandfather. And, like all good men, his time eventually came. And he was able to meet it exactly the way he had hoped...quietly. No screaming or fighting or kicking...just...quietly. With as little inconvenience to his family as possible. He went nobly, with dignity and the calm serenity that patriarchs and kings always strive for.
Don't worry about me...like I would expect concern from any of you, dear snarklings. Don't worry about me one bit. We're Southern, and we're Irish descent. And somehow we're just Southern enough and just Irish enough that we still managed to have a good Christmas day...to celebrate his life, rather than morosely focus upon the sadness of his passing. Tonight, we ate as a family. My father ribbed his brother, and my uncle ribbed him right back...the friendly play-acrimony that can only come from knowing that someone has been your true best friend for the last 50 years. We ate well. We opened presents. My grandmother, the matriarch of the clan, directed us in moving furniture around her house, and hugged us and thanked us, and held tears in her eyes...but never let herself dissolve. My cousin, my brother and I worked at cleaning the luminary bags off the front lawn and lifted couches...we sweated and we huffed and we drank beers and talked on every subject. We told jokes and we laughed.
At dinner, we recalled the moments of his life which most exemplified him as a father, as a patron, as a mentor and as a man. I asked to be allowed to speak, and this is what I said:
When we men were just boys, and new to this world, we look to our fathers to guide us, and show us the way of the world. We look to them to teach us all the things we need to know, to make it through. How to walk, then to ride a bike, then to drive a car, and to change our oil. To swim, to catch a fish, to light a fire, and to cook over a grill. We look to them to teach us to grow to become men. But that's not enough. We look to our grandfathers to teach us more...not just to be men, but to be good men. It is with their experience and with the wisdom of their years of trial and error that we look to teach us how to truly live well in this world. How to act, when to speak, when to hold our counsel, right and wrong. We look to our grandfathers to show us what to truly become.
Because, to a boy, his father is a hero. He is Samson, Hercules, Odysseus and Cu Chulain. What then is his father, but a presence so powerful it can cow even these mighty heroes. Zeus to our father's Hercules. A God. And Carl Chafin did nothing if not live up to the office of that presence. As a man, I can only hope that I can meet another man of his measure once more in my life...fifty years from now, looking in a mirror, to see that I have done his memory well, and become the good man he helped make of me. And as an Irishman, I can only raise my glass to the best God damned man I ever had the pleasure of learning from.
It wasn't the first toast of the night. Nor the last. It was the best I could do. I hope it was enough. Today was a good Christmas.
He was a good man, my grandfather. And, like all good men, his time eventually came. And he was able to meet it exactly the way he had hoped...quietly. No screaming or fighting or kicking...just...quietly. With as little inconvenience to his family as possible. He went nobly, with dignity and the calm serenity that patriarchs and kings always strive for.
Don't worry about me...like I would expect concern from any of you, dear snarklings. Don't worry about me one bit. We're Southern, and we're Irish descent. And somehow we're just Southern enough and just Irish enough that we still managed to have a good Christmas day...to celebrate his life, rather than morosely focus upon the sadness of his passing. Tonight, we ate as a family. My father ribbed his brother, and my uncle ribbed him right back...the friendly play-acrimony that can only come from knowing that someone has been your true best friend for the last 50 years. We ate well. We opened presents. My grandmother, the matriarch of the clan, directed us in moving furniture around her house, and hugged us and thanked us, and held tears in her eyes...but never let herself dissolve. My cousin, my brother and I worked at cleaning the luminary bags off the front lawn and lifted couches...we sweated and we huffed and we drank beers and talked on every subject. We told jokes and we laughed.
At dinner, we recalled the moments of his life which most exemplified him as a father, as a patron, as a mentor and as a man. I asked to be allowed to speak, and this is what I said:
When we men were just boys, and new to this world, we look to our fathers to guide us, and show us the way of the world. We look to them to teach us all the things we need to know, to make it through. How to walk, then to ride a bike, then to drive a car, and to change our oil. To swim, to catch a fish, to light a fire, and to cook over a grill. We look to them to teach us to grow to become men. But that's not enough. We look to our grandfathers to teach us more...not just to be men, but to be good men. It is with their experience and with the wisdom of their years of trial and error that we look to teach us how to truly live well in this world. How to act, when to speak, when to hold our counsel, right and wrong. We look to our grandfathers to show us what to truly become.
Because, to a boy, his father is a hero. He is Samson, Hercules, Odysseus and Cu Chulain. What then is his father, but a presence so powerful it can cow even these mighty heroes. Zeus to our father's Hercules. A God. And Carl Chafin did nothing if not live up to the office of that presence. As a man, I can only hope that I can meet another man of his measure once more in my life...fifty years from now, looking in a mirror, to see that I have done his memory well, and become the good man he helped make of me. And as an Irishman, I can only raise my glass to the best God damned man I ever had the pleasure of learning from.
It wasn't the first toast of the night. Nor the last. It was the best I could do. I hope it was enough. Today was a good Christmas.