A Tribute to My Grandfather

This morning I found out that my grandfather passed away the day before. He was the last of my grandparents still alive, and he fought for life far longer than anyone would have ever given him credit for.

I had a dream not long ago in which I visited Hank. In reality, I had not seen him in years. I am not sure that I could withstand what dementia and age did to him, had I attempted a visit.

I’m not one to believe in fate or in dreams portending reality, but it seemed fitting that I was allowed one final visit in my dream, and that my dream allowed me to see the old Hank, the incisive and witty grandfather whom I knew from childhood. I was able to wish that version of him goodbye. I don’t usually thank the higher powers that be, but I am thankful for that one final encounter. And I’m grateful that in our final meeting, he proved his doubters wrong with a dance and a joke.

My grandpa loved me. I’ll always remember that. I remember the joy he had in making breakfast pancakes for my brothers and me. Damn were they delicious! I also remember his mastery of crossword puzzles and his rapid rate of reading. I remember him reading several books each week; he was a sponge for knowledge. I also remember his fascination with my hobbies, and with my brothers’ hobbies. He was genuinely interested in the shows we watched, the books we read, and the video games we played. He was happy to just watch us doing something that captivated us.

My best memory, one that I’ll always be thankful for, was from a childhood day on a Florida beach. It was decades ago, so the name of the beach escapes me, though I’m pretty sure it was Daytona. I was with my brothers and several cousins. We were playing catch with a football, racing back and forth on the warm sand, sending the football sailing into the air. My grandpa was already rapidly weakening at that time; this was not long before he lost the ability to walk.

He watched us play and I could tell that he wanted to join us more than anything in the world. Finally he got up from his lounge chair and he walked toward us, though the other adults cautioned him to take it slow. “Are you sure you can do this, Hank?” I heard them ask. Yet he shirked them off, he walked forward, and then, to my greatest shock, he ran a little! And he ran towards the football that had recently fallen on the beach.

He bent down and picked up the football, and he threw it towards the kids!

The football did not go far, but the disbelief that I, my brothers, and my cousins had in that moment was incredible. We did not know he could ever do such a thing, but we knew he did it because he wanted to share our fun.

I also had the dark realization that I had just watched him throw the last football he would ever throw, and potentially run for the last time that he would ever run. I have no way of confirming this, but I suspect it’s true. And he did it to have fun with us. I’ll always remember that. There’s something extraordinary in seeing someone perform what we assume to be an everyday action for the last time.

He was always great at surprising people. Even his longevity was a surprise. He was supposed to be the first of the grandparents to go. He loved scotch and he never exercised, after all. His diet wasn’t the best either (to understate his diet).

95 years is an incredible span, and many of those years blessed everyone around him. Whomever you are, my anonymous reader, I wish you could have met him, back when he was healthy. You would’ve liked him. He could’ve told you about more books than you ever knew existed, and he probably would’ve made you laugh more than a few times.

I remember a joke he told me in my teenage years, moments after I went “Number 2” at his house (following a large dinner). I told him that I had just taken a particularly huge dump and he retorted, “I know. Your eyes just turned from brown to blue!”

I’d say he’s in a better place, but I’m not certain that’s true. The concept of an afterlife is a relatively dubious thing. It seems more likely that we return to the place from which we began, which is nothing. But perhaps nothing is a better place, as it is a place still residing completely outside of decrepitude.

Death is not easy, and for Hank, sadly, it was slow and torturous. I suspect if I live for 95 years, my death will be the same. And likely your death will be the same as well, my anonymous reader, should you live long enough. And that’s okay. It’s an unspoken brutality of life, but I find it preferable that we accept it as a natural consequence of age.

Like Hank did so many times, we still have the potential to make something of ourselves today, and to make something special of the occasion, to run when everyone expects us to only crawl, and to throw a football when everyone expects us to hide in the shade and watch from a safe distance.

Hopefully I can meet you one more time, somewhere out there in the cosmos, Hank. If there’s a heaven, it smells like fresh and syrupy pancakes right now.