Grandpa

June 16 Drunk Bowling Alex's Shirt
Originally uploaded by Danarah.

For some reason, my mind has been really occupied with my grandfather lately. I wore his bowling shirt the other day and received many compliments, including people asking me who "Vince" was. We were talking about wedding photos on a hike and I was reminded of the series of pictures from my first wedding (I wish he could have attended the second) where me, my cousin Phil, and my cousin Matt are all leaning over talking to our grandparents with our hands on their shoulders in exactly the same position. I saw a headline about Barry Bonds today and remembered how he was so excited about Sammy Sosa breaking the homerun records. I was trying to determine which year of my life had been my worst, and the one in which my grandfather died ranked pretty high.

My grandfather wasn't a hero or a trailblazer. He wasn't someone you'd write a book about. He was just a normal guy -- a father of five, grandfather of ten, and a great-grandfather of one (although two more were born after his death). He loved baseball. He loved talking politics. After the stroke he had when I was little, he always struggled a little for words, but it didn't keep him from enjoying a hearty debate. Apparently when he was younger, he had a temper, but by the time we were all born, he was a loving, gentle grandfather. I remember that he used to let me and my cousin Janelle play "salon" with his white hair, patiently sitting on the floor as we pretended to wash and style it. He loved Planters roasted salted peanuts and always had some at the house. I don't mean to idealize him -- he was an alcoholic before his first stroke. My father and his brothers and sister can certainly remember some bad times. But I don't. All I remember was his Hawaiian shirts, his white hair, his voice (answering the phone "Nyeellow"), his special chair, the way he talked about my younger cousin Amber (sometimes he couldn't get through a story about her feisty little self for his laughter), the way he got on his knees to look for the turtle in the bushes, the way he sat at the dining room table with me and my grandma, eating a salad for lunch, the way he would turn serious and lean forward when he had something to say that he thought was really important. My grandparents' house was a place, when I was a child, that held my cousins, the old Saltine cracker tin full of tiny kitchen toys, another tin (Danish cookies?) full of farm animal toys and little plastic fences, a shelf of Little Golden Books, a high shelf full of Flaxy Flix, Nilla Wafers, ladyfingers, and various other confections, a blue jar full of Starburst by the door, a mail slot you could reach your thin arms up into, a table that could be turned upside-down on the red carpet of the spare bedroom to be a boat afloat on hot lava, a hallway that could be closed at both ends so that giggling children could escape the prying eyes of adults (but never for long)...

I've been thinking about him in part because of this whole baby thing. Naturally, I wish he could see and hold my child, know how happy I am in my life, know that I became a teacher and that I'm a good one and that I'm happy, know my husband (I think he'd like him). But it's more than that. I've been thinking about the grief process, and what mourning's all about. It's about, among other things, the plans you had and the future you dreamed. I mourn not just my grandfather, but all the visions of the future that I had that included him. And I find myself also mourning some of the other ideas I had -- about a baby that I thought would have come into my life by now. About the easy way we would become pregnant and the joy I would have in sharing the news. I know those dreams aren't gone, just changed.

Part of why I am thinking of the worst times of my life is because I'm wondering if this is one of them. I feel ungrateful. I have a beautiful house, a wonderful husband, a great job, a supportive family, a weird cat... I shouldn't complain, I guess, because I'm so fortunate in so many ways.