The passing on of Pappa
Well, for those of you who haven't heard, my grandfather has died.
I need to ramble a little although this deserves to be cleaned and polished at some point in the future. I don't know what to say but I need to say something. It's also causing horrendous writer's block so I have to do something:
I can't say I'm in mourning. I guess all of the actual mourning has been done very gradually over the last eight years or so. Actually, that's not entirely true, I did have a moment one evening about three days or so ago where I got really sad. I don't know what it was exactly. It probably had something to do with the fact that polliwogette II took the news pretty hard. My assessment of the situation (aside from the fact that she's naturally sensitive) is that this is the first time that someone that she actually knows has died. Along with that came the concrete realization that we'll all die, sooner or later. Her maternal grandfather (my father-in-law) is not in appreciably better shape right now than my grandfather was last week. So hers is a combination of mourning and worry for her grandfather and, I suppose, worry for me, her mother... everybody. It took the little girl two or three days before she seemed to come to grips. It took me a day or two to really have a down moment. I guess that's that.
My grandfather was very present during my formative years. Much more present and certainly more pleasant to be around than my own father. I feel guilty for saying this but it's true: I doubt my dad's death will phase me except for the paper work and hassles that will surely ensue. If you want to insult me, tell me that I remind you of my father. If you want to compliment me, tell me that I remind you of my grandfather. It's about that simple. Taking inventory of my memories of the time we spent together doesn't really turn up that many eventful moments but it's all very pleasant. Contrast that with my memories of growing up with my Dad. Mostly, my grandfather was a guy who worked, came home, sat down, and devoured the news. He was a news addict. He always had a stack of news papers and in his working years, he had a transistor radio that he kept in his shirt pocket. He'd read his paper, listen to his radio, and watch 60 Minutes on TV. After dinner, he'd watch the 8 o'clock news. That's the lion's share of my memories of him. If it wasn't that, it was the Mark Twain-esque tidbits of knowledge he'd pass on to me from time to time or the bits he'd find of interest that he'd read to me from the papers. He used to give me the Sunday funnies and once or twice in my youth he went to Radio Shack to buy a replacement for his trusty transistor radio and then he gave me his old one. Aside from color, it seems like the old ones and the new ones were identical. A block of plastic about the size and shape of a brick of frozen peas with one speaker and an ear-phone jack. The grand-daddy of the Ipod I guess...
So, mostly, aside from pleasant exceptions, occasional excursions, and very occasional unwilling manual labor, I remember my grandfather as a guy who spent a whole lot of time reading in an EZ-boy recliner. I don't have a problem with that. My grandfather was wise, generally stoic, and generally tolerant of everybody. He was kind of the opposite of his wife (my Grandmother) in that regard. I like to think I'm like my grandfather. I've shaped a certain lifestyle for myself, I live by certain rules, but I try really hard not to judge other people until they attempt to directly impact my life. I, like my grandfather, sometimes shake my head at what I see as the insanity of people. Sometimes it's in amusement, sometimes in mild disgust, but I know full well that just because I don't understand something doesn't make it automatically wrong. Hell, I don't understand people who don't like coconut.
I can also say with a certain amount of certainty that physical activity is not necessarily the key to a long life. In your face U.S. Army! My grandfather only burned calories when it was totally unavoidable and he lived to be 89.
Like Kurt Vonnegut, I wouldn't wish anyone back from the dead if I could. Unlike Kilgore Trout (who may or may not be Kurt Vonnegut himself), I don't think that life is a crock of shit. I think it's more like this French saying:
"Life is a shit sandwich. Some of us got more bread than others."
I think my grandpa got a fair share of bread. I think I got a fair share of bread. In fact, I think that the most miserable person I know (I don't know who that is actually, there's competition) got his or her fair share of bread. I'll go as far as to say that the most miserable person I know probably got too much bread.
My grandfather's passing has been something of a test for my faith. Naturally. I don't feel like thinking it through right now, but I'll say this much: my grandfather didn't believe in Purgatory. I personally don't know. I'm supposed to believe in Purgatory. I'm supposed to believe in a lot of things.
Over the past few days, comforting words have come from unexpected places.
The memories have been good and I've been feasting on them.
There's just one more thing: If he'd only held on two more weeks, I'd have seen him one last time. I was going to take advantage of a 'business' trip to Washington D.C., pay whatever supplement was required, take a couple of days of leave, and fly out to say some kind of goodbye. So, I don't know what I think of that, but it was too much of a coincidence for me think that it wasn't meant to be that way somehow. I forget who I first heard this from: God's plan is perfect.
I need to ramble a little although this deserves to be cleaned and polished at some point in the future. I don't know what to say but I need to say something. It's also causing horrendous writer's block so I have to do something:
I can't say I'm in mourning. I guess all of the actual mourning has been done very gradually over the last eight years or so. Actually, that's not entirely true, I did have a moment one evening about three days or so ago where I got really sad. I don't know what it was exactly. It probably had something to do with the fact that polliwogette II took the news pretty hard. My assessment of the situation (aside from the fact that she's naturally sensitive) is that this is the first time that someone that she actually knows has died. Along with that came the concrete realization that we'll all die, sooner or later. Her maternal grandfather (my father-in-law) is not in appreciably better shape right now than my grandfather was last week. So hers is a combination of mourning and worry for her grandfather and, I suppose, worry for me, her mother... everybody. It took the little girl two or three days before she seemed to come to grips. It took me a day or two to really have a down moment. I guess that's that.
My grandfather was very present during my formative years. Much more present and certainly more pleasant to be around than my own father. I feel guilty for saying this but it's true: I doubt my dad's death will phase me except for the paper work and hassles that will surely ensue. If you want to insult me, tell me that I remind you of my father. If you want to compliment me, tell me that I remind you of my grandfather. It's about that simple. Taking inventory of my memories of the time we spent together doesn't really turn up that many eventful moments but it's all very pleasant. Contrast that with my memories of growing up with my Dad. Mostly, my grandfather was a guy who worked, came home, sat down, and devoured the news. He was a news addict. He always had a stack of news papers and in his working years, he had a transistor radio that he kept in his shirt pocket. He'd read his paper, listen to his radio, and watch 60 Minutes on TV. After dinner, he'd watch the 8 o'clock news. That's the lion's share of my memories of him. If it wasn't that, it was the Mark Twain-esque tidbits of knowledge he'd pass on to me from time to time or the bits he'd find of interest that he'd read to me from the papers. He used to give me the Sunday funnies and once or twice in my youth he went to Radio Shack to buy a replacement for his trusty transistor radio and then he gave me his old one. Aside from color, it seems like the old ones and the new ones were identical. A block of plastic about the size and shape of a brick of frozen peas with one speaker and an ear-phone jack. The grand-daddy of the Ipod I guess...
So, mostly, aside from pleasant exceptions, occasional excursions, and very occasional unwilling manual labor, I remember my grandfather as a guy who spent a whole lot of time reading in an EZ-boy recliner. I don't have a problem with that. My grandfather was wise, generally stoic, and generally tolerant of everybody. He was kind of the opposite of his wife (my Grandmother) in that regard. I like to think I'm like my grandfather. I've shaped a certain lifestyle for myself, I live by certain rules, but I try really hard not to judge other people until they attempt to directly impact my life. I, like my grandfather, sometimes shake my head at what I see as the insanity of people. Sometimes it's in amusement, sometimes in mild disgust, but I know full well that just because I don't understand something doesn't make it automatically wrong. Hell, I don't understand people who don't like coconut.
I can also say with a certain amount of certainty that physical activity is not necessarily the key to a long life. In your face U.S. Army! My grandfather only burned calories when it was totally unavoidable and he lived to be 89.
Like Kurt Vonnegut, I wouldn't wish anyone back from the dead if I could. Unlike Kilgore Trout (who may or may not be Kurt Vonnegut himself), I don't think that life is a crock of shit. I think it's more like this French saying:
"Life is a shit sandwich. Some of us got more bread than others."
I think my grandpa got a fair share of bread. I think I got a fair share of bread. In fact, I think that the most miserable person I know (I don't know who that is actually, there's competition) got his or her fair share of bread. I'll go as far as to say that the most miserable person I know probably got too much bread.
My grandfather's passing has been something of a test for my faith. Naturally. I don't feel like thinking it through right now, but I'll say this much: my grandfather didn't believe in Purgatory. I personally don't know. I'm supposed to believe in Purgatory. I'm supposed to believe in a lot of things.
Over the past few days, comforting words have come from unexpected places.
The memories have been good and I've been feasting on them.
There's just one more thing: If he'd only held on two more weeks, I'd have seen him one last time. I was going to take advantage of a 'business' trip to Washington D.C., pay whatever supplement was required, take a couple of days of leave, and fly out to say some kind of goodbye. So, I don't know what I think of that, but it was too much of a coincidence for me think that it wasn't meant to be that way somehow. I forget who I first heard this from: God's plan is perfect.