The Last Grandparent

I never knew my grandfathers. One died before I was born, the other died shortly after. Luckily I had good relationships with my grandmothers, who lived into their 90s. But I was only 12 when my mom's mom died and 26 when my dad's mom died, so although I was lucky to have them in my life at all, I still feel like I didn't get enough time with them.

About 7 years ago, which was about 7 years after my last grandparent died, I received an unexpected gift: another grandmother. When my girlfriend Amy was sure enough about me to introduce me to the family, her own last grandparent, Pauline--Nani, immediately accepted me and loved me like only a grandmother can. I met her when she was in her late 80s, but with her short, grayish-white hair always perfectly permed, and a mind as sharp as her outfits, she looked and functioned like she was in her 60s. Whenever I saw her, she'd tell Amy and I how much she loved us and our relationship. It was always great to sit and chat with her, talking about her life growing up or about the trips Amy and I went on. Sometimes she'd complain about getting older but always with a wry sense of humor. Like many strong willed people, she seemed to resent the aging process, with the constant pain and not being able to function as she once did. Still, at 96, she was in incredible shape mentally and physically. But with that health came a sad irony: she outlived most of her family and friends. She never wallowed in despair, but she often acknowledged the loneliness she felt.

Despite the pain and loneliness of living for nearly an entire century, she seemed to relish her role as the family matriarch and she did her best to make it to every family function, where she'd always be the most highly revered guest, reminiscing with her kids and grandkids and playing with the greatgrandkids.

Recently she was diagnosed with lymphedema. Her time had come, and she was ready. Last week she began the process of entering hospice care, and early this week she passed away.

I was able to visit her a few days before she died. She was still herself, but her health was beginning to decline, and she becoming tired and a little confused. Morphine was also starting to have an effect on her capabilities, but at least it was taking her pain away. As she sat and talked with Amy and I, along with Amy's parents, we asked if she wanted lunch, knowing that it very well could be her last real meal. She looked at me and said, "You know what I want? A McDonald's cheeseburger."

So the 96 year old daughter of immigrants who grew up in Hell's Kitchen ate a McDonald's burger and fries for her last meal. I have never seen anything so American. I wanted to salute her and sing the National Anthem.

In all honesty, it was a perfect meal for the situation. Although I haven't eaten McDonald's in a while, it still reminds me of childhood, when a visit to McDonald's with the family was a special treat. McDonald's has gotten a bad rap over the years, and rightfully so. People eat it because it's quick and cheap, and it's undoubtedly contributed to the obesity epidemic, but it's an undeniable cultural marker and a part of most Americans' lives (maybe even most humans in general now). The meals can be very tasty, but I think we taste nostalgia more than the food itself. Food has the ability to bring us back to a specific time and place and emotion. The burger or chicken nugget is just a delivery system for joyful memories and feeling like a kid again. Nani didn't necessarily want a cheap burger, she wanted the memories of eating McDonald's with her family and friends throughout her life. It's called comfort food for a reason, and at this point, comfort was her number one priority.

I have many positive memories involving McDonald's, and now I can add one more very special memory to the list.

After eating, Nani made sure to tell us how much she loved Amy and I. She had also become somewhat close with my mom over the last few years, a bond formed by their battles with deteriorating health. She told me to give my mom her love and reminded me to always speak to my mom from my heart, a line so perfect it felt like dialogue from a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel.

She cried a bit, and it was clear she was afraid, but more than anything she was ready. I have never been so close to someone who knew they were dying soon. I know how emotional it was for me, so I can only imagine how it was for her. I don't think everyone has her strength in their final days. Having lived a good life helps with accepting death, I suppose. She had previously said that she was ready to die, but it was now an impending reality, and death is still the great unknown. Her mental capacities were working enough to know that death is scary regardless how prepared she was. But she was ready, and I only hope I can ever be as brave.

It's said that people often wait for "permission" from loved ones to finally let go; maybe that's the case, but she was not exactly the type to ask "permission." It felt more like she was satisfied with her life and ready for death, and she wanted her family to be ready as well. She waited for Christmas and the New Year (she made it 11 decades!). She waited until most family members saw her one last time, then she went on her own terms, surrounded by family. That's the best anyone can ask for, and it's what she deserved.

I only knew her for a few years, but I'm so grateful to have had her in my life. Everyone should get the opportunity to spend more time with a grandparent, especially one like her.

Goodbye, Nani, my last grandmother. You will be missed.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

The past ain't through with us

I never met my grandfathers. One died before I was born and the other died when I was too young to remember. Obviously, that sucks. Huge revelation I know. Our older relatives are conduits to the past and I often feel cheated that I didn't get to spend any time with my grandfathers. I didn't get enough time with my grandmothers either for that matter. And for whatever reason, I never really knew much about them, or my family as a whole. I knew the basics, but I never looked into it much, I think partly because I didn't have much connection to the past besides my grandmothers for a short while.

Recently I have become more interested in learning about my family history. There are many reasons for this (we did a heritage project with the kids at work and it motivated me to learn about my own heritage; spending time with my girlfriend's grandmother; watching my nieces grow up and wanting to build the connection to the past and future generations; the existential dread of getting older and understanding my minimal significance in the grand scheme of things) but the fact is I just want to know more about who I am. It's always about me.

Anyways, a few weeks ago, my mom gave me a newspaper article about her father. It's from The Hartford Courant, published on May 5, 1953. I reprinted it below. This would have probably been one of the feel good stories a newspaper ran to keep people's minds off segregation, Korea, and the inevitable nuclear war with Russia. I found it fascinating because, like any news article, it serves as a snapshot of a moment in time, even if it is a "fluff piece."

Most of all, I like it because it sheds light on the type of man my grandfather was:

The Human Touch, by Bob Zaiman

When Nick Farr first started operating the Frances Soda Shop on Ashley Street about 15 years ago, he inherited a gang of the neighborhood high school kids. The little store had been their hangout under the previous owner and, after meeting Nick for the first time, they knew right away that he was the type of guy who would permit them to continue using the place as headquarters.

They were a nice bunch of kids, not a "wise guy" in the bunch. Most of the time they would lounge around the booths talking about sports and girls and the rest of the things that interest boys in their teens. Sometimes when the talk ran down, they would go over to the magazine rack and pore through the latest issues. They never bought any of the magazines but Nick Farr didn't mind--as long as they replaced them neatly after they were through reading. 

Business slowed down in the latter stages of the evening and then Nick began to join them. There were about 15 boys in the group and it wasn't long before Nick became a sort of a senior member. On nights when the gang went bowling, they took Nick and let him compete with them. If they had problems, they would talk them over confidentially with Nick. He developed into a "big brother" for the Ashley Street crew.

Friendship Lasts

Well, the years sped by, and the boys grew into manhood but they still came around to see Nick and to chat with their old buddies. The strong bond of friendship between the soda shop owner and the boys never weakened. 

Seven weeks ago, the old Ashley Street gang received some shocking news. Nick Farr had been taken seriously ill and would be unable to work for some time. They called a hasty meeting in the soda shop to figure what they could do to help their hospitalized friend.

"Somebody has got to take care of the soda shop," one of them announce. "Nick's wife has three small children on her hands and she can't handle it."

They all agreed that the most important thing to Nick in his hour of need was to keep his business operating. And, right then and there, six of them volunteered their services. Not one of them had ever worked in a soda shop before but they knew the general routine and besides, Elva, the personable girl who worked for Nick, could advise them when they were stumped.

All six members of the old gang had steady jobs during the day, which meant they could only help out at night but that worked out fine since Elva took care of things from 7am to 7pm.

Share Night Shift

And so, seven weeks ago they started working the shop, each taking a different night. They didn't ask for or expect any money for their services. They were helping out a friend who had once taken care of them in the past. 

Barney, Victor, and Fred Castellani, three brothers who lived across the street worked all day on their mason contracting business, were eager to do their bit. So were Tom Glynn, a Hartford Gas Co. employee, and James Leary, who works at the Hamilton Standard Propeller firm.

Ray Lavery, the sixth volunteer, lives in Manchester now but he didn't let that stop him. He made the trip to Hartford on his scheduled work night and took his turn behind the counter, handling the sales of cigarettes, magazines, camera supplies and the dozens of other items in Nick's store.

Nick is out of the hospital now, but he is still unable to work. It will probably be another two months before he will be allowed by his doctor to spend even a few hours in the soda shop. Meanwhile, the six old friends are carrying on for him and they vow that they'll stay there until Nick is completely recovered.

Getting the story of their inspiring and unselfish act was like pulling teeth. They didn't want any publicity.

"There's nothing unusual about what we're doing," they said. "Anybody would do as much for a friend."

Despite what the men said about their actions, they clearly went above and beyond what most people would do for a friend. It's obvious that my grandfather made a strong impression on these individuals for them to go to such lengths to help him. It induces a sense of pride to hear that your family members made a positive impact on the people in their lives; I felt a similar sense of familial/genetic pride at the retirement parties for my parents. Not to mention, the respect and accolades my family members receive work out great for me because all that goodwill usually extends my way without me having to earn it.

One of the best parts of this article is the language. The writer states, "not a 'wise guy' in the bunch" in complete earnestness. It's fantastic. The entire situation is almost inconceivable. What is a soda shop? Nowadays it would take place in a chain yogurt shop, except it went out of business after 6 months and the boys never got to know the owner who ended up dying because he couldn't afford proper healthcare. Dark times. Makes you yearn for nuclear bomb warnings.

I am grateful for the men who helped my grandfather in his time of need. I'm grateful for the Hartford Courant for writing the story and my mom for sharing it with me. I've always recognized the importance of history but I often didn't apply that to my own life and family history. As I get older I realize, if our own family doesn't even care about us after we pass, who will? It's the responsibility of the living to preserve the spirit and memory of the dead.

Besides, the dead tell us a lot about ourselves if we just listen.

That sounds overly supernatural. I just mean that you can learn a lot about the present from learning about the past, and you can learn a lot about yourself from learning about your family, and I like doing both, and that's about that.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.