"I think you should know, Mateo, I'm a little bit drunk."
My grandmother said that to me, less than a week ago.
My reply was, "Nana, I think you deserve it more than anybody in this house. Gimme a hug."
And she did. Her husband of 60 plus years had died only days ago, and she had attended his memorial service only hours previously.
I was not drinking, I was continuing type up the "this is how to turn on a computer" instructions that would accompany the hotmail account I had set up up for her. I was also typing up the status reports for her and mom to follow on where I was in the process of squaring up his final expense policy, his VET benefits, his medicare, and AARP coverages, and otherwise. So I let people drink and have their time. They all deserved it, but none more than my grandmother.
When Mary got into town, I took her to where his ashes were and gave her a chance to say good bye before reading him
The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert W Service, a poem he had come across in the 40s in college, and was quite taken by. To the point that he committed the piece to memory. I discovered this fact half a century later when, in the car on a dark road back from Iowa City to Mt Pleasant, he recited the poem to me in its entirety.
The last time I saw him, (before he went head to head with a 1600 degree furnace) was in San Antonio, just before he dropped Mary and me off at the airport, and I bought him ice cream. I told him it was rather cyclical, as he used to take me out to a spot in W Des Moines when I was a kidd-o and buy me a scoop. Then we'd go across the street and sit outside eating our dessert. Sometimes, we'd even tell nana where we were going.
He was a hell of a guy.
I'd be honored to be more like him.
My reply was, "Nana, I think you deserve it more than anybody in this house. Gimme a hug."
And she did. Her husband of 60 plus years had died only days ago, and she had attended his memorial service only hours previously.
I was not drinking, I was continuing type up the "this is how to turn on a computer" instructions that would accompany the hotmail account I had set up up for her. I was also typing up the status reports for her and mom to follow on where I was in the process of squaring up his final expense policy, his VET benefits, his medicare, and AARP coverages, and otherwise. So I let people drink and have their time. They all deserved it, but none more than my grandmother.
When Mary got into town, I took her to where his ashes were and gave her a chance to say good bye before reading him
The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert W Service, a poem he had come across in the 40s in college, and was quite taken by. To the point that he committed the piece to memory. I discovered this fact half a century later when, in the car on a dark road back from Iowa City to Mt Pleasant, he recited the poem to me in its entirety.
The last time I saw him, (before he went head to head with a 1600 degree furnace) was in San Antonio, just before he dropped Mary and me off at the airport, and I bought him ice cream. I told him it was rather cyclical, as he used to take me out to a spot in W Des Moines when I was a kidd-o and buy me a scoop. Then we'd go across the street and sit outside eating our dessert. Sometimes, we'd even tell nana where we were going.
He was a hell of a guy.
I'd be honored to be more like him.