A Eulogy for My Grandfather
So, I was wracking my brain last night, trying hard to think of something to write for today. I’d spent the night before on the phone with my Uncle Michael, being told story after story about my grandfather. Some of the stories I’d heard many times over, some I heard for the first time that night.
So, what do you say about a man who cannot have enough said for him? This seemed to be my dilemma as I sat down to type this out last night, and eventually came to locking myself in the basement in order to put the effort I wanted into this.
I wanted this to be real, and passionate, and from the heart. Basically, I wanted it to be everything that I saw in my grandfather. Pop Pop.
Many of us know all of the colorful stories that make up the events of his life: his childhood in the orphanage, his time in the army, his wives, his children, his grandchildren, and his friends. Tons of these stories found their way to me. I remember a couple years ago, when the movie “Big Fish” was released in the theaters. On hearing my rave reviews of it, my parents went to go see it one night. Later, I asked my dad how he found the movie. He told me that he wasn’t all that sure about it, because it struck him very close to home. When I asked him why, he said that the movie reminded him of his father, my Pop Pop. “In the end, all you have is stories,” was what he told me. It’s no wonder why literature and writing are my chief passions. We live through the stories we leave behind.
But, around 12:25 last night, I still couldn’t find anything I thought to be good enough to put in a eulogy about Pop Pop, the man who, on the morning of his passing, I’d written was “the greatest man I ever knew and will have ever known”.
Then I remembered that photographs tell their own stories. Earlier in the evening, I’d framed what has quickly become my favorite photo of my grandfather.
In it, we’re both in a tunnel, at a local playground, climbing our way out on hands and knees. I’m two years old, Pop Pop, seventy-two. I don’t know about anyone else, but I don’t know many seventy-two year olds who play in playgrounds. But, if you look closely, the expressions on our faces are very interesting. Even at the tender age of two, I seem to be shy and cautious to take the next step. My baby face peers out of the tunnel, almost afraid of what’s to come. Pop Pop’s expression is the exact opposite. Hands on either side of my little body, he looks ahead, eyes full of wonder, smiling. There was never an adventure too small or too big for him.
I can’t help but think that where he is now is yet another adventure that he is looking full in the face and smiling at. This is the person I see in the stories I wasn’t around for: tales of Panama and fighting in World War II.
If you take another look at the photograph, you may see someone a little different from the man in those wild stories: a humble man. My grandfather was never rich, but he was hardworking and willing to help out anyone who he saw was in a rut...or in my case, as the photo shows, a playground tunnel. Pop Pop was always willing to lend a hand or a few dollars, to almost anyone, even if it meant crawling on hands and knees.
And that’s just another side of this man, the fact that he was my grandfather. As I mentioned before, in the picture, his hands are on either side of tiny little me. Throughout my life, Pop Pop has been there to protect me. In elementary school, he was the reason why my sisters and I didn’t become latchkey kids. Everyday, after school, we’d come home, knowing that we were okay because Pop Pop was there. While I was talking to my Uncle Michael, he mentioned how Pop Pop loved watching us, his grandchildren, grow up, and I knew he was right. Pop Pop almost never missed any of our many sports games, school plays, music concerts, dance rituals, or other miscellaneous activities. It wasn’t a party unless Pop Pop was there. My sisters and I never left for a formal dance without showing our made up selves off for him, and snapping a couple of pictures.
I think that this was the role that fit my grandfather best. This past Father’s Day, we spent the day at his bedside, almost knowing, but not quite, that he wouldn’t be with us, in that bed, fighting pain, for much longer. I watched as my Aunt Christine leaned over to brush back his hair, whispering to him.
“You taught us to love.”
And if I were to finish this story, this attempt at a eulogy about this great man, then I would end it there, in that tunnel, on my hands and knees. But now, I’m not as afraid as I once looked, and I know I’ve got him to look over my shoulder, and if anything, anything, I know how to love. And that’s all I need.