And so it is Monday.
Again.
I looked at my calendar a lot this weekend, which hangs in my kitchen. On Saturday the 21st, in big letters, it said "Grandpa-4 years."
This doesn't mean, of course, that it is my Grandpa's 4 year birthday. It means that it is the anniversary of his death. My Grandpa (my mother's father) has been gone for four years now. Seems like so much longer.
The Buddhists have a tradition where, on the anniversary of a death, they invite the departed for a meal, generally their favorite foods. I have thought about doing this but am worried I will feel a bit silly. Also, I've only become a good cook in the past five years or so, so perhaps my Grandpa would be offended that I never made the effort to cook while he was alive. That, and his favorite dessert was a cookie called Pecan Sandies, which is impossible to get here (and for good reason-they seem to suck all of the saliva out of your mouth and turn it all to cement mix type of concoction).
My Grandpa was perhaps the most significant male relationship in my life, for most of my life (until I found a few golden apples out of the parade of total losers that became the list of men I dated). He was Dutch, and perhaps because of that, quite stoic. (I am good friends with a Dutch couple. I asked them recently if they thought the Dutch were not as openly affectionate as other ethnicities. They thought about this for a while and agreed, this was likely. I asked him when the last time he told his wife he loved her. He replied "On our wedding day, eleven years ago. But since I haven't said anything to negate this, it thus still holds true." She agreed. Stoic it is!) My Grandpa was not an emotional man, not given over to sentiment. But still waters and all that...
I never doubted that he loved me dearly. He was such a strict disciplinarian, and I often felt like such a disappointment to him, but he never for a minute made me feel that way. I remember he always had room on his lap for me. Watched my favorite show with me (it was a show called "Floppy Dog". Now that I recollect, I fail to see what in that show so transfixed me.) Let me tag along when I was such an irritating, questioning child.
My Grandpa had nothing for himself, really. When I think of him, I think of the most selfless person I knew. He served his country his whole life. He was a dedicated family man. His one vice was cigars, and even those tapered away later in life as cancer developed. He got his one shot at pursuing his childhood dream when he and my Grandma bought a farm and tried to make a go of it as farmers. It failed, but at least my Grandpa got to try out his dream. How many of us can even say we tried to pursue our dreams? How many of us just sit in the ruts that we have created for ourselves, too afraid to break out? It's just so much easier that way, isn't it?
His death shook me to the core, and I was even the impromptu eulogy speaker when the minister failed to show up at the military funeral. It still guts me when I think of it. And I miss him all the time, even though I often think that I never really knew him.
Grandpa, wherever you are, I hope you're watching over me, and if you are, try not to be too shocked at some of the escapades I get up to. And I can accept the fact that you are gone, since I know that the last words we ever said to each other were "Love you." Not many people get to say that, either.
I miss you, and always will.
-H
everydaystranger@hotmail.com