As a counterpoint to yesterday's grim story, three separate-but-related anecdotes about my grandfather that make me smile, all from late in his life.
First is related to his dramatic "softening" late in his life. He would often tear up at unexpected moments in family gatherings, finally starting to take note of what special people his children were. Frequently, he would ask for and start to cry at "Oh Danny Boy," the traditional song so beloved by the Irish. It happened, once, during one of my final visits to Lawrence during his lifetime, for his and my grandmother's 50th wedding anniversary, which we celebrated in a private room at a local restaurant. As the music played and he began to weep. I leaned over to my Mom and asked her, "um ... are we Irish?" She smiled. "Nope!"
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| Not My Flag |
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A couple years later, in 1998 or 1999, the entire family — 15 of us or so, from four generations (I was in the third), including a few spouses — gathered at my Aunt Kathy's house in Topeka the morning after Christmas. Our family is talkative and good-humored, and family gatherings were ... not known for extended silences. This was a typically laughter-filled and energetic morning, as we sat in a big circle sharing stories and laughing. At one point I made some comment or told some (I thought) humorous story. My grandfather, reacting to the laughter, leaned forward, looking directly at me from across the room, and said, "David, has anyone ever called you Dick?"
A quick silence immediately fell over the room as we all tried to process that comment, and all I could think was that, not only had I been directly and firmly reprimanded for being overly-talkative by my grandfather, but that he had done so in the coolest and hippest way possible. None of my college friends would ever, even jokingly, have thought of insulting me by asking if I had ever been called Dick, and it stunned me that my approaching-80-year-old grandfather would have used this particular construction to make his point.
Still, I immediately got serious, and said, "no sir, but I understand." (I had never called anyone "sir" in my entire life, and have not done so since.).
My mother and her sisters — my aunts were stunned. Everything got quiet. Silence reigned supreme.
Then, however, everyone jumped in trying to make sense of what had just happened, and it soon turned out that ... in seeing me wave my hands as I spoke my grandfather had been reminded of the basketball commentator Dick Vitale, and was simply trying to make a joking reference. The relief that swept the room was palpable, as none of his children could even imagine him using that kind of pointed and off-color language, let alone towards one of his grandchildren.
My friend James — a best friend from the Peace Corps, who had, in the interim, met and married my cousin Allegra, thus joining my family — was in the room that day, and he has never let that moment slip from his memory. To this day he sometimes asks if anyone has yet called me "Dick."
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Finally, although I wasn't there at the time, I am told that, on his deathbed a year or two later, somewhat delirious, my grandfather called my cousin Sarah over to him, and instructed her clearly and firmly to "stay out of jail." Sarah, a nice young woman in her early 20s who had not ever been to jail but, let's be fair, up to that point, had not devoted much mental energy to avoiding it, promised him that she would.
Delirious or not, that has always seemed like a good final instruction to give to your grandchildren on your deathbed. My generation could have avoided a lot of trouble, it seems to me, if they had been told, in their youth, in no uncertain terms, to stay out of jail.
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