Today is Grandpa Matthias’s birthday. I’ve been looking over some old writing recently, and thought it’d be nice to share this reflection I wrote for his funeral seven years ago.
Unable to break a very rigorous travel itinerary, I’ve written this eulogy for my Grandfather to be read by my cousin Matt at the funeral.
For most of us, the man who we are remembering was really a half. We were always going to see either Grandma and Grandpa, or Mom and Dad. While he was a complete person on his own, he was more complete with Grandma. The two of them had a long happy marriage, which is a model we can all look to. We should all be so lucky as to bury our beloved, and still be so in love with them that our prayer would be to go home to them. Not through depression, or turning away from life, but a longing for the love that makes life so complete that our whole being longs to be that complete again.
There are lasting images of his life. The elevated bed, closed off from all light, for the rest of a man whose work was late at night, sometimes keeping him away from his family—a giant family at that—for the better part of the work week. He and our family worshiping at the Methodist church across from the post office and high school. The camper on the back of the truck sitting in the driveway, ready for the open road, ready to be occupied by him looking rugged like Johnny Cash and grandma his beautiful June Carter beside him, a few of the kids, and off they’d go traveling. There was usually a van as well, ready for a “ride” down to Sylvania, maybe a hamburg for ma, and happy-meals for the grandkids.
I remember times visiting Grandma and Grandpa, often with Matt, my closest cousin in age and companionship, (I of course being much better looking, him being much…taller.) Much of the visit would be spent with Grandma who would have wonderful stories to tell, fantastical tales which would sometime feature the heroics of us listeners, craftily woven in. She was a master of family history, knowing what was going on with who, and giving accounts, always of how well everyone is doing. The news—always good. Comical, she would say.
Grandpa would come home from work, either from The Toledo Blade or the Shop, would say hello for a few minutes, drop his lunch pail, and disappear into his room with that elevated bed, and the vertically stacked candy jars with jellybeans, licorice, and other sweet treats. He would take either a shower or bath, extra hot, steam pouring out from under the door, and emerge soft and hot, shaven smooth, and dressed sharp, ready to be with everyone. Sometimes he would return to his lunch pail and retrieve a chocolate bar that he’d bought from a fundraiser at work, no Hershey’s or Mars Bar, something new, unheard of and delicious. I would sometimes save such bars for months, hoarding the treasure. Almost like clockwork, a visit would include a ride down to Churchill’s, maybe Major Magic’s, and often Toys ‘R Us for something special. He didn’t have any grievance against spoiling, and what a joy it was to be spoiled by them.
He and Grandma loved having a giant family. Family is what they did. My situation was unique in that my father was far off (not unlike me now), and they were stand-ins for all of my major childhood transitions. For birthdays, first communion, plays, band performances, they were there as the proxy for my dad. They covered for him with gifts, given on his behalf—a bicycle, a baseball glove, a Gameboy, and all the things a boy might receive from a father. They knew, he knew, what shows of love their grandson might need, that their son was not fully able to give on his own.
It’s hard to give a recollection of grandpa without it being a recollection of both of them. His generosity was their generosity, of which I was only one of many recipients. While no one will accuse him of being a financial wizard, his ability—their ability—to dote on all of their family members and share their largess was immense. I’m sure that you all can recall a sizable gift or show of love that was beyond anything in the range of normal. They wanted us all to know that we were “special.”
Grandpa always had the ability to dream large dreams. The most evident was, of course, Frog Patch Golf course, which he, and everyone else, built in the back yard. He loved a project, and that was one of his lifetime dreams that he actualized. Not only was he able to make a golf course, but gave jobs to some of his grandchildren, giving them summer responsibilities, and “pocket money.” But his life was full of dreams, and unlike other men, he didn’t ever feel the need to tamp down a dream, he just pursued them. Maybe that was from the love and support of Grandma, maybe that was just a gift that he had been given, or maybe it was a little bit of both. But he heard life’s music and was ready to join right in. He played life’s song sometimes with a band, playing his saxophone, guitars, clarinet, keyboards, or singing, sometimes even songs which he composed himself.
Part of his dreaming was an unwillingness to be limited by convention or age. He followed his interests and didn’t bother with what proper limitations might be, whether it was buying a Sega Genesis or a cell phone. His cell phone was the first that many of us had ever seen, plugging into the lighter of the silver van. But even in the last two years, before he accidentally put the cell phone in a cup of coffee, I saw him send text messages, using the eraser of a pencil to push the small buttons on the phone. It was a curiosity, an infatuation with possibility which made his dreams alive and creative. Sometimes it may have been a harebrained scheme, but it was always something that would keep him active, engaged, and wringing the juices from life. Had he not dreamed a golf course, he and grandma could not have admired a sunset from atop the hill on the back (and only) nine. Had he not dreamed of infinite possibilities, he could not have taken a Spanish class in his 70’s and 80’s. Had he not dreamed of more excellent days to come he would not have been able to say to me so many times: “When you get back, we’ll go to a ball game or a show.”
I am not a father myself, at least yet, but I’ve heard many times that the worse thing that can happen to a parent is to have to bury their children before them. Grandma and Grandpa buried two together. My father was their first, and I remember the heartbreak, and the aimless sadness that they sat in. And while it’s hard to recover completely from that loss, they tended to the joy of the rest of their family. Then it came time to work through the death of another child, this time Caro. Together they would drive to Ohio to see her in Hospice, and eventually to say goodbye to her completely. But it was all done together.
The hardest thing that grandpa ever had to do was to lose his bride. Her leaving took some time, which considering the time that Grandpa had to be without her, was a mercy meant for him. Her gradual decline gave him time to care for her. He had time to feel loss with her, to have a long goodbye after a long love affair. They even had a few final adventures, while not as far as Arizona to see Sandy, Joe, and the boys, but even after Grandma began her dialysis, they took trips to the casinos in Detroit. In grandma’s words: That’s comical. And then we buried her.
Grandma’s funeral was a celebration. But there was a great grief with me. I wrote her a letter as she was dying about wishing to have spent more time, to hear more stories, and wanting to have been closer to her warm love. Before her casket was closed, I slid that letter into the coffin with her.
Grandma’s magic is powerful magic, boy! When you ask for something to be different, she couldn’t change the past, but my God, if there is such thing as intercession, I believe that she helped me set a different course with Grandpa. While there is little good that comes from an economic crisis, I had the good fortune of a year of mandatory furlough days. I went down to a four-day workweek. I spent my Fridays at Grandpa’s cutting Frog Patch Grass. Nobody was golfing it at that point, but Grandpa was a man who took pride in what was his, so a few hours of mowing seemed to go a good distance for his dignity. I’d show up in the morning, we’d drink coffee and eat rolls. I’d sit on the mower for a few hours, and he’d cook up a little lunch to eat together. This was the time when we came to know each other as men.
Mark was living with Grandpa at the time and together they filled the house as best they could. Two bachelors taking care of each other. Mark would cook a big breakfast, and Grandpa would putts around doing his little projects—a little help here and there—but still carrying on in the way that only he could. The hole in his life where grandma had been was enormous, but his spirit was such that if you asked him how he was doing, no matter how sick, sad, sore or tired he was, he would answer “Oh, I’m doing a little better than I was. In a couple of days, I should get back to everything, if I could just shake this….” His approach to life was very much similar to the dream, put your belief and your action into it.
A few years ago, Grandpa had his first Christmas as a widower. Family had been around all day. I had been with some of my many other families and didn’t make it to Deerfield until late in the evening. Everyone had gone, but Grandpa was still up and moving around. I was suffering from a recent heartbreak, and he had it even worse. I got to talking about a friend who’d invited me to smoke his grandfather’s pipes with him, and how I’d picked him up a pouch of tobacco while I’d done my Christmas shopping. Grandpa’s eyes sparkled. He mentioned that he had a pipe collection, he’d often enjoyed smoking a pipe and had bought a few pipes to share with his kids who never really took to it, often preferring cigarettes. We talked it over and decided that we should probably smoke some of that tobacco in a couple of those pipes. We had whiskey and soda, smoked slow, and looked into the fireplace. By the fireplace was the best place to get memories from Grandpa. He spoke of all kinds of days gone by. First, how Grandma and he would look into a fire to see what that saw, and talk about animals or people or the stories that were unfolding. We looked in and saw dragons and alligators and hunters—all seeming so matter of fact. Oh, I see it there. There’s his eye…there, he’s walking.” And he moved on to stories of Detroit, meeting Grandma, the house where they used to live, the streetcars, the ball games, courting Grandma. Then back further…growing up, raised by his aunt and uncle, the loss of his parents, growing up in farm country, Peck…. Then forward in time, moving to Deerfield, living out of the foundation of the house, times with the kids, all the kids, how meals worked, how the town changed, how life changed, how life stayed the same. We would fall silent, and stare into the fire…. There are two things in the world that mean more to me than any other possessions I have. The first is a box of letters from my Dad. The second is the pair of pipes that grandpa gave me. While I am not here; while I’m so far away, I smoked Grandpa’s pipe and I sit again with him in all of these memories, and give gratitude for the time of deep sharing that came in those hours and the times that came where we would again smoke pipes with each other, two men looking into the fire, looking into the past.
I told uncle Don that story once, and he emphasized how much I should cherish those pipes, and I really do. The man that I knew was different than the man that his children knew. He softened and changed and grew more loving, less firm, more reliant, more loving as time took away parts of him, most notably when Mark had his accident and passed away. Burying the first two children was devastating, but he had his wife, his love, his strength. Mark, he had to bury without her. He lost his son, his housemate, and had to do it without the one with whom he could bear it.
After Mark’s passing, Grandpa began setting everything in place. I may be off on the order, some things may have happened earlier and some later, but the truth is he prepared himself and us, his family, for the end of his life. He made sure all the gravestones were in place. We had spread my dad’s ashes on the family graves in Peck nearly 20 years ago, but he now had a headstone on the family plot, and grandpa took pains to gather soil from those graves and place it at his headstone here. He spoke with our dear Chelsea Christine at the cemetery, about how peaceful he would be when he lay there beside Grandma. He picked a death date: October 21st, 2011, because that was how many days Grandma had lived. He said “I’m not scared of dying, I’ve done everything that I’ve wanted to do. I believe in God and Heaven, and I’d never do anything to bring my own death, but if God sees fit, I’d like that day.”
Well, that wasn’t the day. There were seven more months of taking care of Jack the cat, Janet Evanovich CDs picked out by Rose down at the Library. There was the winding down to do, the goodbyes to say, and a few more memories to recite.
Since grandpa listened to the music of life, so will I. There is a song from my new home which sings of my old home. This is the song that I love, I play it and remember Grandpa.
[…] Show me your trees in the orchard
With the music on their branches
Keep them from the mouths of creatures
Who intend for them no good.
Take me out past the wind break
Speak the thing you could not utter,
When we’ll howl and moon will cower
At the magic of the word.
Darling this is when I met you.
For the third time not the last
Not the last time we are learning
Who we are and what we were.
You are in the seat beside me
You are in my dreams at night
You are in grandmother’s wisdom
You are in grandfather’s charm.
I hear now Grandma say to all of us: “Remember the good, let go of the rest.” And I hear grandpa’s ongoing hope for what is to come, our next visit, and the undying dream of bright days ahead: “When you get back, we’ll go to a ball game or a show.”
