Remembering Papa Sam

In my grandparent's colonial, yellow Connecticut home, there is a room -- the living room -- which is essentially a time capsule from the 1970's.  It is a striking place, with shag carpeting, shiny-rimmed mirrors with geometric patterns, and psychedelic black and white curtains.  At one end of the room is a bar, complete with barstools and a dwindling stock of hard alcohol.  Next to the bar, glass shelves contain my grandmother's extensive collection of Waterford crystal, which only she is allowed to wash.

Grandpa said he was going to take the room with him when he died.  Every Saturday, company or not, he would sit on a stool -- or eventually, his walker -- and have a glass of beer or watered whiskey, while listening to a radio station that played old time music on Saturday evenings.  It was here, sharing a drink and pretzels as Natalie Cole or Frank Sinatra's voice crooned in the background, that I will always picture my grandpa, smiling, laughing, talking. His voice was raspy: "I sound like the Godfather," he often joked, after his second stroke paralyzed one of his vocal chords and left him perpetually hoarse, like he was always almost getting over strep throat.  Or like the Godfather.

"What should we talk about?" he would ask after finishing a war story or stock market explanation.  It was often he and I at the bar during my visits; grandma too tired, the rest of my family scattered across the world.  

"You decide," I would say.  "You decide," I said again, slowly and clearly.  His strokes had rendered him incapable of following fast speech patterns.  For him to understand, the words must be very slow and clear -- something that most strangers had difficulty forcing themselves to do.  Ours is not a society used to pauses, and instead of talking to him, stores clerks would often turn and answer me or his companion, and I would translate into slower English.  He never complained or became bitter about his condition.  On the contrary, he was always smiling and joking and laughing a loud "HA" when he was amused, which he frequently was.  

I wish I had known him pre-stroke -- his first was at 61, forcing him into early retirement -- and experienced him in all his unfettered gregarious charm, wit, and brilliance.  Grandpa was extremely bright; graduating from high school with the equivalent of a college degree, then studying engineering at an ivy league, and finally getting an MBA.  He owns many patents from his work as an engineer; yellowing papers with names and sketches and descriptions that are beyond me.  I wish I had known him before the first time his heart stopped.  Before he had to relearn the alphabet.  

**

"When you laugh," he looked at my sister and me, "It makes me happy."  We smiled, and probably laughed in response, or maybe said "thank you."  

**

Growing up overseas, flitting from country to country as my father represented America while satisfying his travel itch, I only saw my grandparents during hot New England summers.  My memories mash with home videos to provide a picture of park visits and Chuckee Cheese adventures and grandma saying I'm tall and grandpa asking if I want a banana after we've had a huge meal.  No.  Pretzel?  No.  There were six of us kids, and every year our family descended upon their quiet house on its wooded road, and settled in for a month, spreading through the rooms, climbing on furniture, gobbling all the American food and candy.

Food was a link to my grandparents even when we were thousands of miles away.  A huge box would arrive at the Embassy in Yemen, filled with Cheerios and Peanut Butter Captain Crunch and Mallomars, none of which could be found locally.  On our birthdays, aside from our gifts, they would send an extra amount of money for a trip to McDonalds, which we would regrettably use for a different restaurant in the absence of the golden arches.  

"Love, 

Grandmother Betty and Papa Sam."  

**

In 1944, at 18, my grandpa went to war.  His army photo shows a handsome young man with wavy dark hair, kind eyes, and a hopeful expression.  His stories are harrowing: captured by the Germans, standing in line in the snow with his comrades, an officer eying them and pointing at several different soldiers, including my grandpa.  The chosen men are taken to a Prisoner of War camp.  The rest are shot.  Grandpa had earlier removed his dog tags which identified him as Jewish, and he attributes this to saving his life.  

They were liberated after several months, and he came out dangerously underweight.  After that, he said, he always carried a bit of food on him.  He never forgot the feeling of starvation.  He later served in the Korean war, and he emerged from the two wars with medals, a proud identification as a veteran, POW license plates, and haunting dreams that stayed with him the rest of his life.  

**

Grandpa was always joking.  Always.

"Last night, I had a dream I was eating a marshmallow.  When I woke up this morning, my pillow was gone!"  This was one of his favorites.  His repertoire of corny jokes morphed from being goofy humor to being embraceable and comforting in familiarity, like a fondly shared memory, a line from a script we had all read.  

His hands were large and slow, knobby with translucent skin softly stretching across his veins.  87.  An old man's hands.  His hair though, grew dark and full his whole life, only thinning and becoming speckled with gray in his 70's.  Without his walker, he moved slowly and shakily, arms outstretched towards the closest firm object; door or bed or desk.  He was always working on a project of some sort, usually for the grandkids: family tree research, family photo album compilation.    

**

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return," Natalie Cole is singing.  

"It's true," grandpa murmurs, relaxed in his walker, plate of pretzels in front of him.  I don't know if he understands the words as she sings them or if he recalls them from years of listening.

We are at the bar, the time capsule room is dimly lit by lamp and candle, and I am drinking white wine from Waterford crystal.  He tells me stories.  Stories about the wars, stories about work and friends, about meeting my grandma -- "You should have seen her.  She was beautiful…she still is."  I sit and take in the stories.  I have questions, but it is easier to let him talk, to let him have his story flow.  One question can take a long time to get across.

He asks about my boyfriend -- he has met him over Skype, pressing his face up to the screen with a big smile -- and he asks if he will come visit Connecticut and there is a twinkle in his voice and a comment in his eyes and I imagine he is thinking about great grandchildren.  Grandpa has told me in the past that he was waiting to see his great grandkids before dying.  Sometimes my grandparents talked of death like it was a trip to Taco Bell.  Maybe this is a form of acceptance.  

**

My grandpa passed away last week, and I am sad.  We are all sad.  The world is sad.  I can't imagine anyone who knew him who wouldn't be saddened by his absence.  He was bright and kind and patient.  I see him in my mother.  In her quirky humor, her welcoming smile and ready laugh. I see him in my siblings, in their ability to charm, their nerd-brains, their appreciation for life, their features.  I see him in myself, in my stubborn optimism, desire to learn, enjoyment of company.  

I miss him.  I love him.  

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