(Forgive me if these memories and insights sound crass, that wasn't the point. I just wanted to try my best to, well, say something about this man, the only grandfather I ever got to know.)
A Portrait of a Hard Man
When I was like, 16, I wrote a song where I sang, 'When my
grandfather dies, there'll be nothing to say, and I don't want to be
that way.'
Gordon passed on a month ago while sleeping.
And as I prepare to leave town and travel to his ancestral state
of Utah for a memorial service amidst the alfalfa fields and small
town isolation of Delta, I struggle with words for the customarily
sage conclusion of his existence.
What can I say about a man who lived with such quiet frustration
and loneliness, who drove his family around the country from Hawaii to
DC, from Jersey to LA, always obedient to the demands of the FAA. How
can I capture the essence of a deeply pragmatic, zero bull shit navy
trained Jap-killer, who insisted on wheat bread and molasses and
always swished water after sugary cans of pop. And though his daily
regime of 50 sit-ups and pushups and whole wheat kept his body trim
and pure, the constant flicker of television's blue light across his
eyes turned his mind to mush.
I saw laughter much less than I saw oppressed fear showing it's
forlorn and furious confusion. In fact I honestly don't remember him
laughing, ever. I saw him cry once, maybe twice. The first time was
on the day he woke up to his lifeless wife lying next to him. I was
12, and when he broke down with a few awkward sobs, no one knew what
to do and we stood around the kitchen counter, disbelieved.
There is nothing practical about grief, and today I cry for him.
Today I cry for a man who didn't know how to make a friend; a lanky
old high school football star who struggled to express love to a
complicated, cerebral woman who resented him.
When he would get so wound up, when his vocal chords could not
amplify his frustration with his wife and snotty, toe-headed grandson,
he would stomp over to the garage, turn over the immaculate engine of
his bleached compact Honda, and cruise the suburbs of northern
California. I've always tried to not care, but now I wish I knew what
he was thinking.
As the Alzheimer's Disease inevitably progressed, his rigid
metropolis started to slip into the oceans of the subconscious.
Although still one to say, 'the whiter your bread, the sooner you're
dead,' I once caught him tapping his toes to some sultry modern day
MTV star.
He moved in with my parents and I, and soon after we inhabited that
suburban castle, our dog Jaime came into our life, right around his
74th birthday.
I think I always sensed his incommunicable loneliness, and
perhaps it took a blonde and smiling canine to break through with
pluck and warm his icy desolation. Jaime must of been a sort of
selfless monk in a past life, because he gave her the most blessed
life a smelly beast could ever receive, and she must have come as some
sort of Bodhisattva; with a hounding compassion she showered endless
gifts of affection. Gordon became the token aging gentleman of our
neighborhood, walking that dog, exaggerate I not, ten times or more a
day, rain or shine. He would tip his hat to the folks walking by,
always smiling earnestly, with old-fashioned sincerity that's now
become novelty. Once, on a late night stroll, he walked into the
wrong house on a different street and the family, only mildly
startled, kindly directed him back home.
When he was unable to attend to himself and needed constant
supervision, he moved in with a big-hearted woman, her daughter and 2
ugly hyperactive pugs. Their homely family was a product of
disappointments, divorces, and dead-beat dads, yet they had the beauty
to look forward, to laugh and make crafts. As his inhibitions were
unintentionally lost, my grandfather was often found goofing and
singing, relaxing in the warm and sweet smelling home of the
boisterous. He would wear queer hats and sing Judy Garland on the
karaoke machine, whistling and snapping his fingers.
On the weekends I would take him out: the movies, pizza, ice
cream, the park. Sometimes, it was very gratifying work, taking
leisurely drives throughout Sonoma county, walking through the park,
going to the diners. I would order him chicken fingers and would have
to guide his shaky hands to the ketchup, and he would lick his lips for the ice
cream shakes. 'Deeeeelicious!'
And though it was awfully endearing to see him become so gentle,
care free, and witty, it was also really hard for me to assess the
more insidious effects of his disease as it progressed. At a time
when he became increasingly uneasy with change to routine, he once
believed that he had been kidnapped, and I was his captor. After
repeatedly assuring him that he was in utterly safe company, he began
to yell at me to stop my truck and pull over. I refused and tried to
change the subject; a weak attempt to deflect confrontation. We were
traveling at around 70 miles per hour on a congested highway when he
began to grab the steering wheel and jerk, creating an amplified
dramatic scene of irreversible impending disaster.
Nothing happened. But I was emotionally shaken and I drove him
home. I tried to hide my tears as I explained to his new mother why
we were back so soon. After that day I began to see him less, his
physical health began to deteriorate and he started to lose teeth. He
spent some time in the hospital, and I would sit with him, watching
public television broadcasts of operas, symphonies; eating pizza,
stoned, melancholy, sentimental, proud of my loneliness. He would nod
off, come back, mumble semi-coherent things, and fall back asleep. I
would look out from tall windows onto the fall-weathered city streets,
content as The Watcher.
I think I saw him once during his last year. It was difficult to
see him in diapers; toothless, gyrating his jaw, grimacing, his face
contorted because of all the pills. His medication caused him to
clench his teeth until they fell out to stress.
The last time I saw him, I tried to talk to him to see if he
would recognize my voice. It took him a few minutes to look me in the
eyes, but in a quick moment, a sign of recognition flickered in his
tortured blue eyes.
If you will allow it, I believe they said, 'get me out of this
failing body.'
Jaime, that panting blonde mutt, was put to sleep less than a week before Gordon. You really can't help but think...can you?
A Portrait of a Hard Man
When I was like, 16, I wrote a song where I sang, 'When my
grandfather dies, there'll be nothing to say, and I don't want to be
that way.'
Gordon passed on a month ago while sleeping.
And as I prepare to leave town and travel to his ancestral state
of Utah for a memorial service amidst the alfalfa fields and small
town isolation of Delta, I struggle with words for the customarily
sage conclusion of his existence.
What can I say about a man who lived with such quiet frustration
and loneliness, who drove his family around the country from Hawaii to
DC, from Jersey to LA, always obedient to the demands of the FAA. How
can I capture the essence of a deeply pragmatic, zero bull shit navy
trained Jap-killer, who insisted on wheat bread and molasses and
always swished water after sugary cans of pop. And though his daily
regime of 50 sit-ups and pushups and whole wheat kept his body trim
and pure, the constant flicker of television's blue light across his
eyes turned his mind to mush.
I saw laughter much less than I saw oppressed fear showing it's
forlorn and furious confusion. In fact I honestly don't remember him
laughing, ever. I saw him cry once, maybe twice. The first time was
on the day he woke up to his lifeless wife lying next to him. I was
12, and when he broke down with a few awkward sobs, no one knew what
to do and we stood around the kitchen counter, disbelieved.
There is nothing practical about grief, and today I cry for him.
Today I cry for a man who didn't know how to make a friend; a lanky
old high school football star who struggled to express love to a
complicated, cerebral woman who resented him.
When he would get so wound up, when his vocal chords could not
amplify his frustration with his wife and snotty, toe-headed grandson,
he would stomp over to the garage, turn over the immaculate engine of
his bleached compact Honda, and cruise the suburbs of northern
California. I've always tried to not care, but now I wish I knew what
he was thinking.
As the Alzheimer's Disease inevitably progressed, his rigid
metropolis started to slip into the oceans of the subconscious.
Although still one to say, 'the whiter your bread, the sooner you're
dead,' I once caught him tapping his toes to some sultry modern day
MTV star.
He moved in with my parents and I, and soon after we inhabited that
suburban castle, our dog Jaime came into our life, right around his
74th birthday.
I think I always sensed his incommunicable loneliness, and
perhaps it took a blonde and smiling canine to break through with
pluck and warm his icy desolation. Jaime must of been a sort of
selfless monk in a past life, because he gave her the most blessed
life a smelly beast could ever receive, and she must have come as some
sort of Bodhisattva; with a hounding compassion she showered endless
gifts of affection. Gordon became the token aging gentleman of our
neighborhood, walking that dog, exaggerate I not, ten times or more a
day, rain or shine. He would tip his hat to the folks walking by,
always smiling earnestly, with old-fashioned sincerity that's now
become novelty. Once, on a late night stroll, he walked into the
wrong house on a different street and the family, only mildly
startled, kindly directed him back home.
When he was unable to attend to himself and needed constant
supervision, he moved in with a big-hearted woman, her daughter and 2
ugly hyperactive pugs. Their homely family was a product of
disappointments, divorces, and dead-beat dads, yet they had the beauty
to look forward, to laugh and make crafts. As his inhibitions were
unintentionally lost, my grandfather was often found goofing and
singing, relaxing in the warm and sweet smelling home of the
boisterous. He would wear queer hats and sing Judy Garland on the
karaoke machine, whistling and snapping his fingers.
On the weekends I would take him out: the movies, pizza, ice
cream, the park. Sometimes, it was very gratifying work, taking
leisurely drives throughout Sonoma county, walking through the park,
going to the diners. I would order him chicken fingers and would have
to guide his shaky hands to the ketchup, and he would lick his lips for the ice
cream shakes. 'Deeeeelicious!'
And though it was awfully endearing to see him become so gentle,
care free, and witty, it was also really hard for me to assess the
more insidious effects of his disease as it progressed. At a time
when he became increasingly uneasy with change to routine, he once
believed that he had been kidnapped, and I was his captor. After
repeatedly assuring him that he was in utterly safe company, he began
to yell at me to stop my truck and pull over. I refused and tried to
change the subject; a weak attempt to deflect confrontation. We were
traveling at around 70 miles per hour on a congested highway when he
began to grab the steering wheel and jerk, creating an amplified
dramatic scene of irreversible impending disaster.
Nothing happened. But I was emotionally shaken and I drove him
home. I tried to hide my tears as I explained to his new mother why
we were back so soon. After that day I began to see him less, his
physical health began to deteriorate and he started to lose teeth. He
spent some time in the hospital, and I would sit with him, watching
public television broadcasts of operas, symphonies; eating pizza,
stoned, melancholy, sentimental, proud of my loneliness. He would nod
off, come back, mumble semi-coherent things, and fall back asleep. I
would look out from tall windows onto the fall-weathered city streets,
content as The Watcher.
I think I saw him once during his last year. It was difficult to
see him in diapers; toothless, gyrating his jaw, grimacing, his face
contorted because of all the pills. His medication caused him to
clench his teeth until they fell out to stress.
The last time I saw him, I tried to talk to him to see if he
would recognize my voice. It took him a few minutes to look me in the
eyes, but in a quick moment, a sign of recognition flickered in his
tortured blue eyes.
If you will allow it, I believe they said, 'get me out of this
failing body.'
Jaime, that panting blonde mutt, was put to sleep less than a week before Gordon. You really can't help but think...can you?
