My grandpop died yesterday. He was almost 82. I had “known” him for 31 years. However, the relationship I shared with him wasn’t your “textbook” grandfather/granddaughter type. He had been a mystery to me all of my life, and I barely scratched the surface of his character – even when this reality hit me in my mid-twenties. I didn’t know a major contributor to the blood flowing through my veins. I didn’t know the man my mother shaped her opinion of all men after. Hell, as I kid, I was afraid of this daunting, silent giant. He wasn’t a kid-person, much less a people-person. This fear, of course, lessened as I grew older and realized that people aren’t open books, and sometimes, those “closest” to you are, in fact, the most difficult ones to reach. And, ya know? That was okay with me. I didn’t have to know every detail about my grandfather, and he didn’t have to know all about me. It was a comfortable uncomfortable existence. Period.
When I received the ominous call from my mom last night, the automatic response was sobs and tears. I could not relay the information aloud to others without breaking down. Sure, this is the common manifestation of grief: sadness, pain, tears, and shortness of breath. But, THIS was NOT supposed to be the way I reacted to the death of a man I hardly knew. After the emotion died down, and I was able to think a bit more clearly, I tried to nail down what, truly, elicited this response. Was it because I would miss the tenuous relationship I had with my grandfather? Was it because my mom was beside herself with shock and grief over this unexpected, however inevitable, death? Surely, these reasons impacted some of my pain, but no. And no.
My grandfather, from what I hear and from what I could garner from our encounters, was an interesting, spunky, original (albeit, a bit eccentric) man. He cared deeply about his passions – which included his wife, his five kids, his dogs, his parrot, and his room-size LCD/flat-screen television. He loved his Johnny Walker (Black label, Blue label, Green label, Gold label…..but “NEVER Red label. A waste of a pretty bottle,” his insisted.) He loved his hobbies and had endless determination to see his projects through to the end. He was a fierce computer builder, train set erector, and illegal-DVD-burning aficionado. He was proud. And, from what most people could tell, he was content.
PREVIOUS PAGE
