I remember lingering, after everyone went out of the Chapel for a meal, by his closed casket, a veteran’s flag folded on top. My grandpa was a private man yet a well-connected man. Gregarious and wise. In his retired years, he traveled the country and the world as a Ben Franklin impersonator—I thought that was so cool.
Grandpa was so artistic—calligraphy and photography and dabbling into writing were his expressions. A great pianist—he preferred jazz and he had a beautiful base voice. I can hear him “ba-ba-bum-ba-ba-bum” ba-bumming.
He wore soft knit sweaters and well-pressed slacks. Grandpa was not a denim man.
Sleep-overs at Grandpa and Grandma’s house on East Wabash were part of my childhood. The red carpeting up their stairs. Bubble-baths in Grandma’s bathroom and the chilly smooth wooden floor underneath my bare feet as I’d climb into crisp fresh sheets for storybook time in the guest room.
When my parents were splitting apart in 2014, Grandpa continued to champion me—in all of the tricky dynamics, I knew his heart still was with me as it always had been.
For thirty-two years, I got to know him, to love him, and really—to be loved by him. I know he would be proud of where I am today, and he’d hand me the keys to his latest luxury vehicle and let me take us for a spin one more time.
Grandpa, thank you for your legacy of fresh starts, try-agains, you-can-do-its, the occasional knuckle-sandwiches and your big ole ‘Bumpa hugs.
I’m forever grateful.
OXOX
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