"He slipped away last night..."
Posted: Wed Feb 08, 2006 10:07 am
That's how my grandmother told me this morning when she called.
My grandfather passed away during the night. I spoke to him for the last time on Saturday morning when he called at work to remind me to call my grandmother later that day and wish her a happy birthday (I had already sent a card, but he knew I was notorious for calling belatedly). He sounded horribly hoarse and weak, not like I'd ever heard him before.
He had a heart attack back in November. The docs drew fluid from the pericardium and lab tests revealed cancerous cells. They never found the primary location of the cancer and he did not want any treatment for it. His thinking was that he was 86 and that he'd lived a long, full life.
I saw him for the last time this past Christmas. I started a new job in November, but had made an agreement with my new boss -- one condition for me to accept the new job was that I would get Christmas off so that I could go to KY. After the diagnosis, I knew this would be my last Christmas with him. I'm glad I got to go.
I loved him, and yet, I disliked him in a lot of ways. In my younger years, I was too naive to really know what kind of man he was because I only saw the good side of him. When I was a teenager in the 80's, he taught me how to tie a tie, saying, "A man appreciates a lady who can help him tie his tie." He taught me a lot of remodeling and painting skills when I helped him finish their basement in the late 70's. When I was knee-high to a duck, he taught me the proper way to shake hands, even though my hand was barely the size of a domino. I've been impressed by others who can shake hands properly also and I realize how right he was about the impact it makes on those you meet.
And yet, I found out years later, this was the man who physically, verbally, and sexually abused my mother. He was an alcoholic. And he was racist and bigoted in his way of thinking and speaking. His actions left emotional scars on my mom and I lived the outcome of that trauma during my childhood.
A few years ago, I was able to talk to him about me and my life and, surprisingly, he understood and accepted it, even praising me for my solid beliefs about marriage as a sacrament. I was able to admonish him on the occasions that something ignorant and bigoted came out of his mouth, like one time, after a certain basketball coach who used to play for Kentucky said the MF word during a game. My grandfather said, "He got that from all those blacks he used to play with." I asked him how he figured that and he said, "It was a slave word." I said as far as I knew, the slaves didn't know English until we taught them so how could it have been their word first? Furthermore, I didn't know any slaves who played on the Kentucky team. There was more to it than that (and usually always was), but you get the drift. My grandmother told my mom once that she loved how I could always put him in his place, respectfully yet assertively.
He survived the Depression, going to work at 4 in the morning, then to school (walking uphill both ways, of course), then working again in the evening, before doing his homework and chores and then going to bed. He served in the Pacific after WWII, helping with post-mortem clean up in Japan. He was a 4th Degree Knight of Columbus and will be buried with honors. He had two children, four grandchildren, and one grandchild. He was married to my grandmother for 67 years.
As he said, he lived a long, full life. Not one of which I'm completely proud. But he did have some good qualities, great accomplishments, and he taught me a lot from his bad ones also.
Rest in peace, Grandy.
Perhaps I'll ask if I can tie his tie.
My grandfather passed away during the night. I spoke to him for the last time on Saturday morning when he called at work to remind me to call my grandmother later that day and wish her a happy birthday (I had already sent a card, but he knew I was notorious for calling belatedly). He sounded horribly hoarse and weak, not like I'd ever heard him before.
He had a heart attack back in November. The docs drew fluid from the pericardium and lab tests revealed cancerous cells. They never found the primary location of the cancer and he did not want any treatment for it. His thinking was that he was 86 and that he'd lived a long, full life.
I saw him for the last time this past Christmas. I started a new job in November, but had made an agreement with my new boss -- one condition for me to accept the new job was that I would get Christmas off so that I could go to KY. After the diagnosis, I knew this would be my last Christmas with him. I'm glad I got to go.
I loved him, and yet, I disliked him in a lot of ways. In my younger years, I was too naive to really know what kind of man he was because I only saw the good side of him. When I was a teenager in the 80's, he taught me how to tie a tie, saying, "A man appreciates a lady who can help him tie his tie." He taught me a lot of remodeling and painting skills when I helped him finish their basement in the late 70's. When I was knee-high to a duck, he taught me the proper way to shake hands, even though my hand was barely the size of a domino. I've been impressed by others who can shake hands properly also and I realize how right he was about the impact it makes on those you meet.
And yet, I found out years later, this was the man who physically, verbally, and sexually abused my mother. He was an alcoholic. And he was racist and bigoted in his way of thinking and speaking. His actions left emotional scars on my mom and I lived the outcome of that trauma during my childhood.
A few years ago, I was able to talk to him about me and my life and, surprisingly, he understood and accepted it, even praising me for my solid beliefs about marriage as a sacrament. I was able to admonish him on the occasions that something ignorant and bigoted came out of his mouth, like one time, after a certain basketball coach who used to play for Kentucky said the MF word during a game. My grandfather said, "He got that from all those blacks he used to play with." I asked him how he figured that and he said, "It was a slave word." I said as far as I knew, the slaves didn't know English until we taught them so how could it have been their word first? Furthermore, I didn't know any slaves who played on the Kentucky team. There was more to it than that (and usually always was), but you get the drift. My grandmother told my mom once that she loved how I could always put him in his place, respectfully yet assertively.
He survived the Depression, going to work at 4 in the morning, then to school (walking uphill both ways, of course), then working again in the evening, before doing his homework and chores and then going to bed. He served in the Pacific after WWII, helping with post-mortem clean up in Japan. He was a 4th Degree Knight of Columbus and will be buried with honors. He had two children, four grandchildren, and one grandchild. He was married to my grandmother for 67 years.
As he said, he lived a long, full life. Not one of which I'm completely proud. But he did have some good qualities, great accomplishments, and he taught me a lot from his bad ones also.
Rest in peace, Grandy.
Perhaps I'll ask if I can tie his tie.
