G-pa

On Friday, February 22nd, my grandfather died. He was 93.

I didn't get to say goodbye. Though, in some ways, I've been saying goodbye for years. His health had been declining and each time I saw him, I knew it could be the last.

At some point during my childhood -- I'm not sure when, exactly -- I began to call him "G-pa." And it was the same for my grandmother, who became G-ma. I guess I thought it was important to dispense with formalities and get right down to business.

Some memories:

Once, on a family vacation to Hawaii, I discovered a gigantic cockroach in the house we were renting. Being a 5th grader, I ran down the stairs to get an adult to deal with it. (Okay, I would probably do this now. No way am I getting near a cockroach.) My G-pa came to the rescue with his pocket knife and ended up lopping off a couple of the thing's legs before it scampered away. It was like he suddenly became Crocodile Dundee. My family and I have been laughing about it ever since.

He was always an avid, loud nose-blower. When I was little, each time he blew his nose I would tell him that he "scared the wits out of me." He would laugh. It was our thing.

Whenever visiting my grandparents' house, G-pa would usually be watching some sporting event on television. But if you sat down to watch with him, he would courteously hand over the remote, the way others might pass a tray of food. And, stubborn as he was, he wouldn't usually let you get away with passing the remote back to him. I think there has been significant time spent at family gatherings passing the remote around the room because nobody really wanted it. Nobody wanted to be the one to just shut off the TV, either. It was my family's version of hot potato.

When my dad died, my G-pa and G-ma stayed with us for a little while. I remember them both taking over the running of the house while the rest of us took to our beds and cried. For some reason, I especially remember my G-pa vacuuming. It made an impression on me, I think, because I realized just how much he and my G-ma were willing to do to take care of us -- even the crappy chores. It seemed especially thoughtful that they were taking care of even little things that most others would have forgotten when they were busy bringing us casseroles and sending stupid cards full of platitudes.

Many of my G-pa memories are also G-ma memories. They would have been married 69 years this August. They were "G-ma 'n' G-pa," almost a single word. And whenever I think about how bereft I am, I think about my G-ma, alone now, counting the breaths until she can join him.