cacophony

I remember the day after Granny died, I went in the early afternoon with Mama and Daddy to her house. It seems, now, like there were so many people there. I walked in, down the couple of steps that led to the living room, and looked to my right. She had been there, in a hosptial bed right there in her own home, for so long — to a child’s mind, it seemed like that bed had been there for years, but I know it couldn’t really have been that long. And now she wasn’t there, and my vision went blurry. I turned away — look somewhere else, anywhere else, to avoid the void where Granny should have been. Turning my head to my left, I looked down the long hallway toward her bedroom. Gramps was walking toward me, talking to someone else as he walked down the hall. But as soon as he saw me, wildly looking for something to anchor my eyes, anchor my heart — he held out his arms to me. I went flying into them, nearly tripping over the step up into the hallway, grief bubbling up through my eyes and down my face in hot, salty tears. He pulled me to him, held on to me tight enough that, finally, I didn’t feel like I was going to go flying apart, and he said “We’re sure going to miss her, aren’t we?”

I don’t remember another time, either before or since, that he has just held me, offered comfort or affection so freely. I don’t remember what I said in response or how long it was before Daddy gently pried me from his arms. I just remember that for the first time since Daddy had told me “Granny died last night,” I felt solid. Looking back, as an adult, I recognize what a shattering loss he had just suffered, but he took the time — no, made the effort — to reach out to a desperate little girl. I am so thankful that I have that memory.

I remember when Gramps got married again, but not in any real sense, not in any detail. I was still quite young — maybe ten years old? I have a vague recollection of sky-high ceilings and impossible amounts of glass in the church, of his wife standing at the altar in a pale blue dress, of all my cousins in little bunches and clusters making noise. The only real memory I have of the whole affair is that I put a toothpick into the meaty part of my palm during the reception, like a freakishly large splinter, and the arresting pain that it caused. I used wads of monogrammed napkins to stem the bleeding. The marriage is almost less memorable than the wedding, save the animosity that bled through the entire family.

A home I’d once considered just as much my own as mine was now a place no one liked for me to be. If I went to visit, his wife shadowed me around (where before I’d had free reign) and told me not to touch things; when I told Mama and Daddy where I’d been, I got tight, thinned lips and distant eyes. Only my reception from Gramps never changed — I got the same distracted greeting and general nonrecognition that I was there that he had always given me. There was much comfort in its familiarity. Eventually I gave up visiting, as did most of the family, and by the time I was a teen I didn’t even remember to call him on his birthday, or Father’s Day, or any other day. I think there may have been times I went years without seeing him. He was no more to me, in action, than an acquaintance — though I mourned for Granny nearly daily.

I remember when his wife told him she wanted a divorce. I was married and mother to a seven-week-old infant by then; he was more than 80 years old and his wife of more than 15 years said “I want you to leave.” He was legally blind, nearly deaf, in poor health, and it was shortly before Christmas. Where was he to go? I was stunned by the news. I remember I was sitting in the living room of my parents’ home, hooked up to my breastpump, when my fahter came in the door leading his father, who was shuffling slowly along, holding tightly to Daddy’s arm. I have never seen a person — in gait, posture, air — look so defeated as my grandfather. Daddy was angry with me, but for once in my life that didn’t matter to me because I was too focused on Gramps, and on how sad it made me to watch him move into the room. During that short trip to Mississippi, I probably spoke with Gramps more than I had in the previous ten years combined, and it made me ashamed that I’d not made more effort before.

He complimented me on my son many times, always exactly the same words. “He’s such a good looking boy.” And one night, he shuffled over to us and reached down and took Nate’s hand — reaching out in a way I’d never seen from him in my lifetime, save that one moment in the hallway in his home — and asked Nate if he liked stories. “When you get older,” he said, “I’ll tell you The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. My sons used to love that story.” Daddy, listening, said “We just liked the voices you used when you told it, Dad.” Gramps just smiled, then let go of Nate’s hand and shuffled back to his chair. But then, at that moment, I knew in a way I’d never known before that he loved us, loved me and loved my son. The vision of him standing there, holding my son’s tiny hand, is the second most vivid memory I have of my grandfather.

I remember when he got married for the third time. After a long, ugly, bitter divorce was finalized, he was determined to start his new marriage quickly. At 86, an age where most people considered him far too old to be setting out in a new marriage, he stood at the altar once again and made vows to a woman he loved. I don’t think I remember hearing him say a single word the entire day other than his vows. Watching him and his wife at the reception, I knew that this marriage was a good thing. I was struck by how sweet and how caring his wife was, how interested she was in getting to know and be part of his family, how easily she seemed as if she’d been part of our lives, and his, for a long, long time. I knew this was good, and it made me happy.

Gramps turns 88 years old today. He will not, barring something completely”miraculous” (for lack of a better term), celebrate his 89th birthday. He is currently in hospice care (though at home), suffering from advanced stage Parkinson’s disease, and the estimates from the doctor on “how long” range from 3 weeks to 6 months. He has good days and bad days. There is something of a war raging between his five children about how the end days of his life should play out, and there is a fringe of sadness in my mind every time I think about him.

But I cannot be truly sad; I can’t be heartbroken. He is suffering, and when he returns to the Earth that suffering will be over. His life has been an incredible adventure. He followed many of his dreams and had an amazing array of experiences in his lifetime, things that I could only dream of doing. He spent much of his time pursuing his great loves (like fishing, and gambling, and owning hotels) and there are not too many of us that can say that is what we spent our lives doing — chasing our passions. In his lifetime, he owned a bowling alley, a Vegas casino, a resort, multiple hotels, and things I am sure I am forgetting. He had private planes and boats and beach houses available to take him to the water, put him in his nirvana, at a moment’s notice. He knew the love of an incredibly strong, passionate, amazing woman — with whom he had five children. He has the love of a lovely, caring, warm and delightful woman to carry him through the last years of his life. He did the things he wanted to do in life, and has a rich and fascinating tapestry of a lifetime to look back on now. He has five children, 18 grandchildren, and 24 great-grandchildren that have shared his life and will now “carry on” his legacy.

So, today, I will celebrate the man he is and the life he’s had. I will mourn, a little bit, that I didn’t bother to pursue a closer relationship with him. I will remember those very few, but cherished, moments of stunning connection that I have had with him. He is the last of my living grandparents, and I am lucky to have him as a grandfather.

Happy birthday, Gramps. I love you.