Remembering Grandpa

My grandpa was 92 years old when he died last month. The only reason he didn't die sooner is that he was too stubborn. For years he'd been telling anyone who would listen that he was ready to go. Yet he kept hanging on, as he dwindled to 130 pounds, lost control of his bodily functions, saw his kidneys start to fail and slept for more and more hours. My family had rushed to Kaiser Hospital for months, thinking this time was really it. But he'd always pull through and be sent home.

Me and Grandpa

Grandpa's mind was sharp until the end, although he was always a man who worked with his hands. After growing up on a farm in Kansas, he borrowed $25 from his father to buy a train ticket to California, where he lived in a tent in the backyard of some relatives for four years until he landed a job at a construction company in the middle of the Great Depression. His cross-country trip has long been a part of our family folklore, although my favorite part is that he used half of the $25 to go up in a two-seater airplane along the way, money his father berated him for spending so foolishly. But Grandpa didn't care. He was 18. Young. Strong. Invincible. Seduced by the thrill of adventure.

For most of his life Grandpa, my dad's father, ran his own company, Cunningham Building Specialities, that installed lockers for clients like Dodger Stadium, Miller Brewing Company, Westin Hotels and L.A. County Jail. I remember getting a postcard of a kangaroo when I was 9 years old during one of his jobs in Australia. His tight cursive detailed his trip and wished me health and happiness, which was always his sign off. He probably also told me to be good for my mom and dad, which got increasingly difficult as I approached adolescence.

Grandpa and me (8th grade)

When Aunt Cathy, my dad's sister, called me at work last month to tell me he was gone, really gone, I cried quietly in my cubicle. She recounted how she, her husband Tom, Grandpa's wife Pat, Pat's son LeRoy, Grandpa's baby sister "Red," and Red's son Paul encircled his bedside recounting old stories as he lay unconscious on a hospital bed in the dining room of his home in Claremont, Calif. The hospice nurse said the hearing is the last to go, so they filled his ears with love and laughter until his chest grew still, then joined hands and said the Lord's Prayer over his body. What an utterly beautiful way to go.

Last weekend Dave and I flew to Los Angeles for Grandpa's final send off. An avid fisherman, he wanted his ashes buried at sea. So we boarded a yacht in Long Beach harbor, drove the required 2 miles offshore to lower a basket containing his ashes into the Pacific Ocean. My dad held one end of the rope attached to the basket as Aunt Cathy and LeRoy held the others. When it hit the water, one of them pulled up on their rope, tipping the basket and pouring what remained of Grandpa into the sea.

Grandpa

The powdery white ashes formed a milky, amorphous shape against the blue backdrop of the ocean, like pouring Epsom salt into a large bathtub. We threw white roses on top of the ashes and stood in silence on the deck, struggling to keep from toppling over as waves lapped against the bow. As I stood surrounded by my family, Dave's arms encircling my waist, I was struck by how right it felt. That we were returning Grandpa to wherever he had come from. Completing the circle of life. Much like a coffin being lowered into the ground, it signaled a finality that was both beautiful and heartbreaking. Sobs welled up in my chest as I watched the current take Grandpa and our flowers farther and farther away.

For me, death offers the opportunity to reflect on what someone meant to me, what they symbolized in my life without even trying. The phrase that best describes Grandpa is "just show up." He was unwaveringly supportive of me, both in action and in words. "Whooooweee!" he'd always say whenever he saw me dressed up. "Whatever blows your skirt up" he'd say when I recounted my latest adventure.

He attended every birthday, every graduation, every major milestone. He slipped crisp $100 bills into my birthday cards that included not only well wishings, but instructions like "Don't vote for Hillary Clinton" and "Eat red meat." At the time I was living in New Jersey and tried to explain that Hillary was running for senator in New York so I couldn't vote for her even if I wanted to. But that didn't matter. He said it anyway if for no other reason than to goad me. Much like how he always called me in January to ask what the temperature was in Chicago and to report that it was 75 degrees in L.A.

Three generations: Grandpa, Helix, Eric

One example of how he demonstrated his support was when I was working at a small legal newspaper in Miami. He got a subscription to the paper so he could read my stories every day, learning more about the Florida courts and real estate market than anyone living in L.A. would ever need to. He'd discuss the articles with me and grouse about how the Los Angeles Times was becoming nothing more than a rag filled with advertisements as though I could do something about it by virtue of being a journalist. A year after I left Miami for a job in Chicago, I found out he was still reading the Miami paper. It kept coming, so he kept reading.

Saying good-bye is never easy, even when someone is old, frail and ready to go. Yet what I've learned from this experience is that Grandpa's not entirely gone. Not now. Not ever. Whenever I show up for a friend, put in an honest day's work, keep my word, show up on time (or God forbid, early), laugh at a dirty joke, balance my checkbook to the penny and crush my nephew into a bear hug, Grandpa lives on. That's the beauty of legacy.