A Toast to My Grandfather
rmzak
My grandfather died with a martini waiting for him by his chair in the living room. He stood and walked to the kitchen to get some pretzels to accompany the chilled cocktail he planned on ending his day with and never made it back to his chair. When my uncle found him the next day on the floor between the kitchen and living room, he noticed no signs of a sudden fall. No bruises or evidence of struggle, eye glasses still in place, he appeared to have set himself down, accepting the pain in his chest that took his life. A doctor diagnosed the cause of death as cardiac arrhythmia, or abnormal electrical activity that alters the usual heartbeat. Knowing how his wife died just eighty-eight days earlier, I view it in simpler terms: my grandfather died of a broken heart.
My grandmother’s death surprised no one. After suffering four years almost entirely in hospitals and nursing homes, battling infections and complications spreading from her knees that eventually resulted in the removal of her leg, many close to her prayed for her pain to end. As it became clearer that little time remained, everyone in the family had a chance to sit with her, talk with her, and say goodbye. My grandmother died surrounded by family, taking her last breath while gripping rosary beads in one hand and my grandfather’s hand in the other. We took comfort in the thought that this is how she wanted to die. The mother of a daughter and six sons, she gave her entire life to her children, and never happier than when surrounded by them, she gave up her life with the sight of her family in the last spark of light to enter her eyes.
My grandfather’s death could not be more different. His passing was sudden and shocking, and he was alone. There was a strange kind of warmth to my grandmother’s passing. My grandfather’s felt cold. As Robert Frost might have said, she chose fire and he ice. Still, I can’t shake the idea that, like my grandmother, he died the way he wanted.
I never saw my grandfather upset or angry. A stoic, hard-working son of broken-English speaking Polish immigrants, he confronted many challenges in his life that belittled anything he faced by the time I began my relationship with him as the first of twenty-three grandchildren. He claimed to first see my grandmother from atop of a ladder leaning against the local theater’s marquee while he spelled out the title of the newest Hollywood release. He said when he looked down and saw her, he forgot the name of the title he was supposed to be spelling. About a year or so later, my grandmother found herself pregnant, and the couple found themselves married. I never saw pictures or heard stories of the young bride and groom’s wedding day, and no one ever asked the stubbornly devout Polish and Irish Catholics about it. My aunt’s birthday falling seven months after their wedding anniversary was all anyone needed to know. Planned or not, the marriage flourished, and planned or not, six boys followed that first baby girl, my father being the oldest of them.
Throughout the rapid changes in his life and growth of his family, my grandfather juggled fatherhood and college until earning a bachelor’s degree in accounting, which helped secure him a job in the then strange new field of data processing and computer programming. Shortly after my grandmother died, I spoke at length with him about working with computers in the mid-1950s. His eyes and gestures sprung to life as he described loading punch cards into huge machines the size of entire rooms that sounded nothing at all like the slim laptop I tap away at now. But being part of this emerging technology did not end his desire to learn more, and he continued pursuing further education, attending graduate school classes at night until he received his MBA in industrial management. His children witnessed this effort and strove to emulate their role model, each stretching their educations well beyond their own bachelor’s degrees in the fields of education, mathematics, accounting, social work and medicine.
Through my father, my grandfather passed on his love of learning to me as well. I remember warmly how proud he looked when I told him I had successfully completed my thesis to earn my master’s degree in English. His appreciation for my accomplishment also opened up another side of this man to me--his own love of literature. He would often call me aside and ask about a forgotten book title or author, and then surprise me with his depth of knowledge of that book’s contents, sometimes even quoting lines word for word. This occurred last this past Father’s Day.
He asked me, “What was that war book that had a character named Major with the last name Major? He went on to become a major in the army and they called him “Major Major Major?”
A personal favorite of mine, I told him it was Joseph Heller’s Catch 22, and we went on to laugh and talk about this World War II satire that amused us both greatly. He referred to the author as “old Joe Heller” like he was a buddy from his youth. Pondering over how long it had been since reading it (“thirty...forty years?”), he told me, “I’d love to read it again. I bet I’d find things I didn’t notice, couldn’t notice, way back then.” As I type, my copy of old Joe’s novel sits on the table by my bookshelf, where I left it as a reminder to give to him when I saw him next.
Thinking of that conversation now, I realize that my grandfather’s passion for his own learning did not end with his MBA. He recognized what John Dewey meant when he called education “a process of living and not a preparation for future living.” He understood how the impact of a book changes in relation to the reader’s personal experiences, and all without a master’s degree in English.
Our last conversation took place later that same night. After he asked me what I had planned for my summer off from teaching high school, I told him that I was teaching an English class for adult immigrants a few nights a week. As he listened, I noticed the characteristic spark in his eyes that signaled a charge in his brain. He asked many questions about the class: “How old are the students?” “How many take the class?” “Where do they come from?” and “Ever teach anyone from Poland?” This last question made me think of his own immigrant parents and what it must have been like for him growing up in a bilingual home, teaching a new language to his mother and father and translating for them as they raised their family in this strange new culture and country.
As I told him more about my experiences teaching adults English in the past, he had an idea: “You think I could come by and sit in on a class? I have a lot of free time on my hands now and would love to see it. You wouldn’t even know I was there--I’d just sit in the back quietly, not bothering anyone.” He added, “It sounds so interesting...I bet I’d learn so much.”
I assured him he would never be an intrusion and was always welcome, and we agreed to make it happen. I promised to call him when class began, which happened to be the Monday after he died.
Returning to our final conversation or seeing my copy of Catch-22 overwhelms me with a mixture of anger and grief. I looked forward to more discussions about books and his visiting my class. I want to hear his new revelations from a second reading of “old Joe’s” Catch-22 and his impressions of me as a teacher. I want to learn more from him, hear more of his stories, and share more of mine with him. But if I step away from my own wants, I see how for my grandfather this created his own catch-22. Although experiencing and learning new things still gave his mind that spark he fed off of and enjoyed so often in the past, he was now learning that without my grandmother by his side to share it, it offered no genuine happiness. As incomplete as a brain without a heart for the eighty-eight days since she died, any joy he now experienced merely cleared the way for an intense longing to share it with his partner of over sixty years. Knowing this desire could never again be fulfilled, the last flicker of energy that made his heart tick fizzled out, and it broke.
Every morning for as long as I knew him, my grandfather completed the cryptogram word puzzle in the newspaper as he ate his breakfast, arranging letters to form phrases as he once did as a teenager on a movie marquee. I found his last one where he left it on the kitchen table after the final breakfast he ate there. The words of the solved puzzle (he never left it unsolved) sent shivers through my body as I examined the scrawled letters he penciled in only the day before: “The grand essentials of happiness are: something to do, something to love, and something to hope for.” The sentence in his own handwriting read like his final message to the world, he assuring us that without his biggest source of happiness--the mother of his children who was the heart of everything he did, loved, and hoped for--he was ready to leave this life. And just as he promised me he would act when visiting my classroom, he did so with no one noticing, without making a sound, or bothering anyone.
I miss my grandfather already and am sure I always will. However, I like thinking that he died comforted by the vision of my grandmother, seeing her like he did for the first time, only now her looking down on him, and the two of them joyously celebrating their reunion. And I don’t think this idea is too far-fetched, either. After all, he had a martini ready for the occasion.
Reader Comments (7)
This is a profoundly deep and beautiful tribute to man who greatly influenced your life.
I am sorry for your loss.
Great emotion and tribute in your post. You mention the habits and routines that defined your grandfather's existence. The martini, the puzzles, the reading that make him a living character are all strong details that said so much about the person. He must have truly been one of the luckiest people in the world to see 23 grandkids born.
I didn't have my grandparents very long. They were all gone by the age of six, but somehow I still remember them and their importance. Most of all, I remember them always being kind to me. I still wonder if I look like my grandpop and I never stop thinking, like you did, that they are somewhere watching: picking me up and cheering.
I think he would have liked your post. I think he would have gotten a kick out of the catch 22 of it all. Thanks
This is an absolutely wonderful tribute to an obviously wonderful man! My grandfather passed away this summer as well, and while I did not have the same connection with him as you had with your grandfather, I am still trying to process his death. Reading your post makes me wish I knew my grandfather better, visited him more often, and listened to his stories more carefully. He was the last of my grandparents, and the patriarch of my family. Without him, I wouldn't be who I am, at the very least in name.
I am deeply touched by your loving portrayal of your grandfather's life and death. You must pass on the same beautiful values he taught you to your own family. This is truly a "pass it forward" opportunity for his children and grandchildren. We are losing great "treasures" with the passing of your grandfather's generation. May his last penciled message, "“The grand essentials of happiness are: something to do, something to love, and something to hope for.” be your guide for life.
I am so sorry for your loss. What a beautiful post about a beautiful life. Sixty years of love must have been very difficult to live without. May we all hope for such love in our lives.
A beautiful piece. It's a sign of the kind of person that he was that he wanted to sit in on your class and share your experiences. That's really something special.
I love your discussion of your grandfather's "catch-22." No matter what we gain from our learning, we need to share it with someone. Your piece makes me think that those like your grandfather, who enter our lives and make their presence known quietly and thoughtfully, are those who sometimes have the most lasting impact. That's a comforting thought. You are obviously lucky to have known him as well as you did.
I read the last few lines of your tribute to your grandfather with a lump in my throat. It was so beautifully written and I found it deeply touching. It is greatly apparent that. as your loss was great, your gain was that much greater.