Jen's Column / Grandpa

Hello there,

The post I wrote recently about my grandpa morphed into one of my weekly columns... and here it is, below! This ran Wednesday.

I had a really, really nice time in Sun City with my grandma, my parents and my sisters. It was really cool for us to be together. There were a lot of "grandpa stories" told -- and a fair share of giggling. (And one particular moment of hysterics in the Dairy Queen. Damn Jay and how his "That's what she said" jokes have infiltrated my psyche.)

My parents and grandma are on their way back to Minnesota. My grandma will stay for the holidays and then return to Sun City. She has a big transition ahead of her; she has been living with my grandfather for 59 years, after all. But she's a strong woman -- and says that she will learn to live alone -- and will be OK. I know she will.

OK. My column...

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I'm in Arizona. I try to get here at least once a winter to visit my grandparents. Sometimes I take one of my boys with me. Sometimes we all go. Every so often, like this time, I indulge in the trip alone.

I've been planning this visit since my grandparents left Minnesota earlier this fall. When I talked to my grandpa last week, he asked what I wanted to do when I got here.

"I don't know," I said. "Just hang out with you guys."

"We'd like to take you out to dinner one night," he said.

"I have a better idea," I told him. "Let's order in and watch Marlene Dietrich movies."

"Oh, that sounds good," he said. "I haven't watched Marlene Dietrich in a long time. She's my favorite, you know."

The next morning, my grandpa died. His aortic aneurysm was the cause, as he knew it would be. It began leaking and there was nothing to be done. My grandma was by his side.

You think about funny things when a loved one dies. I've been thinking about his obituary. I imagine my grandmother or my mother will write it and I imagine it will say that he enjoyed crossword puzzles and watching Jeopardy. That he liked to read the paper and eat those marshmallow chocolate pinwheel things and meet his friends for coffee. That from his only child, an adored daughter, he managed to land three granddaughters and a gaggle of great-grandchildren.

That's all true. But it's also just part of his story. I wish it could also tell about his strong mother and his kind father. About his days in the fraternity and how he took fencing lessons. About being a doctor in the war and treating soldiers in India. How he went to parties in New York City when he was on leave. How he could swim across Lake Calhoun, eat lunch and swim back. I wish it could tell of all the house calls he made, leaving in the middle of the night to care for a sick child. How he had no sympathy for my screaming when he pulled slivers out of my foot. How he made tiny, framed pictures of my grandma to put in the dollhouse he built for my twelfth birthday. How he was a stickler for grammar. ("That's me!" I'd say, showing him a photograph. "That is I," he'd correct.) How he put tremendous stock in education, literature and the pursuit of fun. How he liked a good martini maybe even more than he liked fresh raspberries on his ice cream. How he recited poetry at will, enjoyed art and remembered the authors of all the books he'd read.

He and I have always had this thing; we stole it from Alan Paton's, Cry the Beloved Country: "Stay well, granddaughter," he'd say whenever we left each other. "Go well, grandfather," I'd answer.
I'm going to miss that.

At the same time, I am filled with relief to have no regrets about the time we spent together. I have no doubt that he knew exactly how much I looked up to him, how much I respected him, how much I loved him. I never left him without a hug, a kiss and an "I love you." I never let a visit go by without touching him — whether it was just sitting and holding his hand or standing behind him and rubbing his neck. ("Ooh… you're sure good at that," he'd say as he drifted off.)

Though he lost confidence in himself as aging became increasingly difficult, I never quit seeing the intelligent, strong, able man he was for most of his life.

Tonight, with my grandmother and parents and sisters gathered together, I'm going to eat my dinner in the living room and watch Morocco and maybe even try one of those marshmallow chocolate pinwheel things. And honor this man who meant the world to me.

Go well, grandfather. I love you.