Dear Grampa

Dear Grampa,

Today, it's your turn to be remembered. It's been seven years since you died. Seven (!), where does the time go? I miss you, and I wish your great-grand-kids had a change to get to know you.

I think my "problem" with grieving is that I've always done it alone. Yes, there have been people there who have tried to comfort me, but...I shut down, I pull away, I hide. And, that hasn't worked out so well. I think by talking about you and Gramma, whether on the blog or in person, by sharing with others, by remembering...it seems to help a bit. I don't think I'll ever miss you less, but talking helps me feel understood, validated. It reminds me that I'm not alone, that I'm connected, that other people still miss you (or another loved one) as much as I do. And by sharing, it helps keep your memory alive. I don't ever want you or Gramma to be forgotten.

I remember Friday afternoons with you. You'd give my brother and me a weekly allowance, and you'd bring us to Newport Creamery and let us get whatever we wanted (I always got a cone of strawberry ice cream with chocolate sprinkles, or a sundae of strawberry ice cream, strawberry topping, and whipped cream...still one of my "comfort" foods). Gramma always wondered why your weekly spending money disappeared so fast.

I remember trips to the library. You'd drop my brother (J) and me off, while you waited in the car. J would take a long time, and I'd end up sitting with you in the car for a while after I picked out my books, and before J came out. While we waited, we'd play games. We'd watch cars going by, and see who could find license plates from the most states; we'd count the number of cars of a certain color and see who counted the most. You always made passing the time fun.

I remember Friday night sleepovers with you and Gramma. I remember playing word searches with you - we'd each do a page on opposite sides of your book, and see who finished first - I always wondered if you let me win all the time (even though you said you didn't). I remember playing cribbage with you. We'd stay up late watching Nick at Nite, and we'd watch a few shows in the morning too...shows like MASH, I Love Lucy, Mr. Ed, Tom and Jerry, and Popeye.

I remember going through old photographs with you, and listening to you talk about your family tree. I wish I had listened to your stories more closely, and I wish I wrote more things down.

I remember your pastel blue car, and how you'd proudly paint it yourself every year. You used a paint brush and a can of paint...by the time you got rid of that car, the paint must have been an inch thick! I always thought you were a very handy, resourceful guy...until I realized a few years later that painting your car with a brush wasn't exactly the "right" way to do it...lol.

I remember your driving. You drove us around a lot and I was a tad embarrassed. You were *that* grandfather who drove extra slow and didn't stay in your own travel lane. You didn't understand why people sped past you...you said that you'd always catch up to them at the next stop light. And, if there were two lanes of traffic, you'd drive right in the middle of them both, on top of the white dotted line...you said that it was the best place to drive -- far away from any pedestrians, and far away from oncoming traffic.
I remember you picking me up from school often. My mom has said that picking us up from school was your best time with us, and if she told you that she was picking us up, you'd get grouchy and act like a kid that didn't get their way. You brought me to karate a few days each week. And as I got older, you'd keep telling me that if I ever needed a ride or anything, that I could always call you.

I remember you paying for my karate lessons when I first started. I am so thankful for that, and I often wonder what my life would be like if I never started taking lessons. I wouldn't have met my husband, we wouldn't have been tested for black belt together, we would never have started dating, we would never have gotten married or had kids, I wouldn't have met my many friends and mentors from the karate school through the years, etc. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I remember you working a lot over the winter. You worked for the state, and when snowstorms came you were one of the men who plowed the roads. If it was a bad storm, sometimes you'd work overtime for several days straight.

I remember your mother, my great-grandmother. Your were such a mama's boy. You drove her around whenever she needed, you spent time with her whenever you could. You loved her. And you were the one to find her dead. After she died, even when you were smiling, you always looked as if a part of you were lost. I was 11 when she passed away. I don't really remember her wake or her funeral...but I remember seeing my grandfather's world get torn apart. I saw my strong, proud, stubborn grandfather become fragile; I saw you cry.

I remember your red pickup truck. It was a Toyota, and you drove that thing for so long. I can't remember how many miles it had on it, but it was some ridiculously high amount - I want to say 400,000, but I might be wrong.

I remember Christmas one year. You would only wear clothes from the Salvation Army. I'm not sure who it was (Aunt B, Uncle B, Aunt L, my mom, or a combination of everyone), but they bought you new clothes, took all the tags off, and convinced you they bought them from the Salvation Army so that you'd wear them.

I remember stopping in at your job with you, even after you retired. The guys loved seeing you. You retired maybe...20 years ago? I forget. But to this day, I still see some of your former co-workers around town and wave. I haven't had a chance to talk to them in a while (I usually see them in passing - driving one of the big trucks beside me, or coming out of the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru, etc), but still. You must have been a pretty memorable man for your co-workers from 20 years ago to still recognize your granddaughter.

I remember you forgetting more and more in the years before you died. Alzheimer's, mixed with hearing troubles...not a good combination. I remember showing you my ultrasound pictures at the nursing home when I was pregnant with R. I remember you kept referring to her as a "he" - you kept forgetting that she was going to be a girl.

I remember hearing how your stubborn-ness was a challenge to the nurses. If you didn't want to do something, there was no way they'd make you do it.

I remember seeing you and Gramma together. I don't think I ever remember seeing you two hold hands or kiss, until you were in the nursing home. The happiness and excitement on your face when she was affectionate...I'll remember that smile forever.

I remember bringing R to the nursing home to meet you when she was only a couple months old, your first great-grand-child. I have a few pictures of you just looking at her and holding her little hand, that I'll always treasure.

I remember seeing you at the hospital near the end. You were hooked up to a ventilator, and had so many other tubes and wires coming out of you. I was happy that I could see you again, and that I was able to say good bye, but at that point, it seemed like you were already gone. You couldn't smile, you didn't open your eyes, you didn't squeeze my hand, you were just resting. My mom said your numbers improved a bit while I visited, but I didn't notice you showing any reaction to me being there. I hated seeing you like that. My once warm, fun-loving, stubborn, lively grandfather lay motionless, being kept alive by the cold beeping and buzzes of machines. I wish I had visited you more often.

I remember your funeral. Your funeral was the first time I had seen military funeral honors. The sounds of the rifles shooting and the bugle playing, the silence as your flag was folded, the respect as your casket was saluted, Gramma's tears as she was handed your flag...

You and Gramma were my rock. You were my source of stability and peace when my life often seemed so unstable and chaotic. I cannot thank you two enough for the love you shared, for the guidance, for the memories. You are a big reason that I am the person I am today, and I hope to be as amazing of a person as you each were. Thank you both so much. I love you, and I miss you.