My grandfather has passed away.  As much as I was logically prepared for it, my emotions could not be readied.  He lived 88 years, which is an incredibly long time.  His life was filled with hard times, but also love.  It was filled with lots of family, 5 great-grandchildren, and friends.

This blog is my attempt to capture just how important and impactful he was to me, but I already know these words won’t do him justice.  It is my coping mechanism and way to say good-bye, so here goes.

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When I was a child, almost all of my memories of my grandfather include my grandmother.  To be exact, they include my grandmother screaming and cursing at him, and him laughing and winking in reply.  My grandmother’s favorite phrase seemed to be “Goddamnit, Joseph”, and she’d say it so often you could almost be convinced that was his full name.  One time, they baby-sat my siblings and I overnight.  The Lion King had just come out on VHS.  While we giggled at Timon and Pumba showing Simba how to eat bugs, my grandmother screamed in disgust, and my grandfather chuckled at her reaction.  Later that evening, she tried to use my parents jacuzzi bathtub, but the jets were a bit finicky.  She unfortunately hit the wrong button and the next thing I heard was her howling.  The jets were hitting her full force, splashing water all over the bathroom tiles.  In her terror, she called for grandpa in the only way she knew how – “Goddamnit Joseph!”

When she died, I was 13.  I knew what sadness and grief were, but was still immature to true sadness, and to true love.  My grandfather was the one to give me my first lesson in this.  On the day of her funeral, he knelt in front of her casket and wrapped his large arms around the brown box.  He wailed in agony, his body shaking so hard the casket also shook.  I stood, frozen, like a pillar of salt.  I was old enough to recognize that what I was witnessing was the truest and purest example of love I would probably ever see.  The sight also broke my heart.

He would often cry talking about her, even until recently.  When he felt up to it, he would bring out their wedding album and regale me with tales of how he proposed (over the phone during the war) and how she did a shot of alcohol in front of her father at their wedding (both he and her father were apparently stunned speechless).  I love their wedding photos because I can see my mother and her siblings in their faces.  I can also see the love my grandfather had for her.  His eyes radiated with it, his smile stretching from one big ear to the other.

As I got older, my relationship with my grandfather became more special.  Even through his tears talking about my grandmother, we spent the majority of our time together laughing.  We laughed all the time.  He was a trickster and loved a good joke.  For the longest time, my best friend Ashley was convinced he was actually the Wendy’s spokesperson, Dave.  He was quite a good actor and would almost take on this character when seeing her.  I thought he might go so far as to actually make her a cheeseburger.   😆

He knew how to efficiently and effectively manage an operation as well.  By that I mean, he know how to pinch pennies and get his grandkids to do stuff for him.  My grandfather was born in 1929, the year that kicked off the Great Depression.  He was always so careful with his money because of how that time affected him.  God forbid he replace his carpeting or hire a cleaning company to get that dust behind the refrigerator.  One time, I went grocery shopping for him.  His grocery list was the most Polish I had ever seen – pickles, ham, horseradish, butter, bread and milk.  I wanted to treat him so I bought him fresh, organic, milk.  He looked at me like I was crazy for spending “that kind of money”, but he drank that milk the fastest.

He also loved hearing a good story, and would share the best ones with his circle of friends.  He liked me to repeat the story about the one time Tony and I went camping.  We kayaked and hated it.  We slept on the ground.  We got wet during our sleep because it started to rain and the water broke through the tent.  We then had to kayak more.  He laughed so hard at that story.

When I moved to Switzerland, the stories I shared morphed into stories of my travels.  Knowing he didn’t have internet, I would send him postcards from every place I went as a way for him to see what I was seeing.  He saved them and when I would call him, we’d talk about those trips.  He seemed so proud of me and would always say “you’re doing all right, kid”.  He liked that I was seeing the world and doing what I loved.   I once brought him chocolate made from camel’s milk – this was after a trip to Abu Dhabi.  I was unsure what his reaction would be.  He was a child of the Depression, after all, and the Middle East had been painted as this scary and dangerous place.  But my open minded and accepting grandfather said “boy, that chocolate sure was delicious.”  I could just picture him with bits of chocolate in the corners of his lips as we spoke.

Of course time moves on, and one day, we all will meet our maker.  Towards the end, I would actually pray for my grandfather to go to Heaven.  He was in pain, he couldn’t properly function on his own, and he still missed my grandmother as much as he did that day he hugged her casket.  When my daughter was born, I wrote about how the part of the brain that is responsible for language and logic is different from the part of the brain that controls emotions.  That is why it is so difficult to put into the words the magic of child birth.  You literally have to experience it for yourself to understand.  With my grandfather’s death – and thank God he got to meet her – I feel the same way.

Logically, his passing is what is best for him.  He is at peace.  He is no longer in pain.  He is reunited with the lady who loved him enough to dub him “Goddamnit Joseph.”  His death is not a tragedy, either.  He lived 88 healthy years, filled with lots of family, 5 great-grandchildren, and friends. In his final moments, he was comfortable and surrounded by his family, his hand held as he slowly slipped away.  What more could one ask for?  But selfishly, his passing is not what is best for me.  The logical part of my brain is at peace, but the emotional part is a wreck.  My heart is destroyed and my fingers ache that I will never again get to write him a postcard.  The finality of it all has knocked the wind out of me and I am not sure when I will get it back.

My grandfather was an incredible man.

He was independent and stubborn as hell.

He had a million friends and his phone was always ringing.  I loved getting his answering machine because it ended with “I hope you’re beautiful”.

He could eat anyone under the table.

His mischievous wink always got a smile out of you.

He loved his family and especially his wife.

He was my grandfather.

And he was my friend.

Until we meet again Grandpa, I have one more postcard for you:

“Dear Grandpa

Now you are the one traveling to a place I have never been.  How was the flight?  I’m sure Heaven is as beautiful and wonderful as I have dreamed.  How is Grandma?  I have some guesses as to what she said when you saw you again, haha! Give her a hug for me, and I will see you soon.  Make sure to save me some chocolate – I bet it tastes even better there than in Switzerland.  I love you.  And Grandpa, you’re all right.”