92 1/2 years.  What a remarkable feat.  The average life expectancy in the United States is 78 years.  When my grandfather was 78, he was still driving his Buick down to Joe’s Variety to pick up his lottery tickets everyday. One of my favorite things I’ve ever heard him say, was this past July when he made the trip to Pennsylvania to stay with my brother in the hills of Greenpoint.  He sat at the breakfast table and motioned to his oatmeal.  With as much emotion as one can muster while talking about their oatmeal he exclaimed to my sister in law, “You think I like eating this shit?”  He was as no nonsense as it gets. I still remember when he stopped dressing up for our family get togethers.  My grandmother would gripe and complain and insist that he change out of his quilted flannel and he would remain poised and unrelenting.  He wasn’t trying to impress one single person.  He had lived too long for any of that.  I can’t wait to finally not care what anyone thinks. To earn my rite to sit at the head of the Thanksgiving table in my 25 year old blue jeans and just take a nap.

As a young girl, trips to visit my grandparents were a sheer delight.  Not only would I be adorned with a fresh school wardrobe, but I had access to all I could eat fruit loops and my absolute favorite, soft fresh loaves of Edy’s Rye bread.  I was devastated the day I came to learn that the old miser in my gramps had finally taken over and he decided that Edy’s rye bread was too expensive, Shop Rite had a better deal.  He had created an addict and to this day I still pick up half a dozen loaves of that rye bread whenever I come to town.

My Gramps was exceedingly generous towards his grand children.  He was constantly looking for reasons to give us money.  I often felt great guilt about the money he would give to me.  I would comb his hair for 10 or 15 minutes while he watched the Price is Right and he would give me 20 bucks!  Thats a lot to me at age 32 and it was grand riches when I was 10 years old.

It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized what it was that my Gramps had done as a career.  My dad would explain to me when I was young that it was Gramps’ responsibility to keep everything going and keep everyone happy at one of the finest restaurants of its time.  I still recall going to eat at Rapp’s Paradise Inn, long after my Grandfather had retired.  I sensed that everything from the table setting to the wait time to the temperature of the lobster tail was under the close scrutiny of his watchful eye, because , of course, nothing would ever be as good as it had been when he ran the place.  A few years ago I stumbled upon a newspaper article in his house wherein he, the maitre d of this popular dining establishment, was being interviewed.  The reporter was asking him about the different types of drinks that people order from the bar and what it said about them.  I wish I still had the article because I found his responses surprisingly entertaining.  My favorite part was when he mentioned that a woman sitting by herself at the bar was always trouble.  Truer words were never spoken.

One of my most treasured memories of my Gramps took place when I was about 11 years old.  I had come to stay with my grandparents for a week over the summer.  I was playmates with the little girl next door, a nice catholic girl…her family kept a pristine sitting room in their house like nothing I had ever seen, coming from my home with five children and no use for such a fancy space.  She told me that we weren’t allowed to go in there because it was for “If the pope ever came to visit.”  We were sitting on her back deck when I must have mentioned something about my father having gone to jail in recent years (allow me to say that in having 5 of my own children, I’ve come to realize that kids need to talk about what’s going on in their personal life as much as anyone else, whether it makes me look good as a parent or not.)  My grandmother had apparently been eaves dropping from the bedroom window of their home.  She immediately called me into the house and made it very clear that there are certain things we don’t need to be so eager to share.  I went to my bedroom in tears.  Now, I can understand.  The family name was at stake.  Her pride in her family was shaken by my candid chit chat with the neighbor girl about the undeniable reality of her sons’ life choices.  While I sat on the edge of my bed, looking out the window, crying the kind of cry that takes over your entire body, I didn’t even hear him come in the room. My Gramps slipped onto the bed beside me and put his arm around me, drew me close.  He didn’t say much, just told me it was alright and held me near. It was, and will remain, the most tender moment I have ever shared with my Grandfather.

92 1/2 years.  I have to imagine that my Gramps had experienced emotions during those years that there are not yet names for.  The feeling of being one of the last of all your friends to be breathing.  The feeling of outliving your sons and your wife.  The feeling of losing track of all the grand babies and great grand babies you have. During the years that my dad lived with Gramps and helped care for him, he told me that he had observed that as a person ages, it is as if they become like a child again.  While many of us want to imagine ourselves living to a ripe old age, no-one wants to picture themselves being hoisted into their bed with a lift or not being able to make it to the bathroom or living in a cloud of confusion and frustration.  A complete loss of the dignity that we believed at some point was our right.  My Grandfather had done it all.  He felt the sea breeze on his face while cruising in the North Pacific Ocean during his time in the navy. He beheld the beauty of the Aleutian Islands and spoke of them as if he had just returned.  He built his home from the ground up with his bare hands.  He won the lottery more times than I’ll ever know, in more than one way. He lived through wars and depressions and unspeakable grief. My memories of my grandfather will always be of his strength and his wisdom and the brightness of his eyes while he watched his grandchildren playing at our family gatherings.

One of my children was disappointed to have to miss a spring concert today that they had been preparing for and working hard for months to present with their schoolmates. Sensing the disappointment, I explained that no-one ever WANTS to go to a funeral. It’s never ideal. It never seems to happen at a good time.  But when it does, when someone you love and respect has completed their mission on this plane of existence, it is time to reflect upon them and to honor them. I informed my child that if it weren’t for their great grandfather, they would not be here. We are who we are because of who he was. He has left his imprint on every person here. We will forever be better, stronger, wiser, more generous and loving people because in his 92 1/2 years…his life happened to touch our own. Gramps. We honor you. We thank you.