Papa

Losing a grandparent is difficult. Losing them long before they actually pass away is harder.

I remember the first time we went to Lewiston, Idaho to have Thanksgiving with Papa and Grandma K.. It was a long drive, it was cold when we got there, and we had to rake leaves. Yes, rake leaves… in the cold. My brother and I would have froze to death, but we had just gotten hand knitted gloves and hats from them. How convenient. What I wasn’t expecting was getting paid to do it. It was the first time I had gotten money for doing chores and the first time I realized that hard work pays off… literally. I used that money for Christmas presents, or candy, I’m not really sure.

What I remember most is thinking it was absolutely awesome knowing somebody in the entertainment industry. Okay, so Papa worked for a local radio station, but we got to tour the station before he took my brother and I to the toy store to pick out stuff for us and our sisters and had goulash for dinner. And he knew Santa. Mall Santa. A mall Santa who arrived at the mall in a helicopter. It was amazing to my nine year old self. Papa also loved to tell war stories from when he was in Korea. Lots and lots of stories. And he could watch television in his sleep as was apparent when I changed the channel while he was obviously sleeping and he said, “I was watching that.” I still have no idea how he’d know I even changed the channel, but he did. He always did.

So a few years ago when we were told that Papa’s mind wasn’t as sharp as it once was and he had to constantly be reminded of who people were, I was saddened. I wondered if he would still be the same person I knew. And for the most part, he was. But over time it was quite apparent that he was remembering less and less and becoming more paranoid that something was going to happen to his dog who practically never left his side. On one hand this slow degradation somewhat prepares you for the inevitable, but on the other it just seems cruel.

When I got the call that he had passed away, or more accurately text message (don’t mock, between texting and Facebook is how my family communicates) I wasn’t surprised by anything except actually breaking down and crying over the loss. Even though I knew it was coming and have been preparing for it over the last couple days, I still couldn’t stop falling to the ground as the tears began flowing. And then I started laughing as a story he told me about my stepdad popped into my head. Losing someone is difficult and painful, but as long as we remember them, their spirit will live on.

Grampa

If my grampa were alive today it would be his 87th birthday. I often wonder how my family’s life would’ve been different had he not died the day after Easter back in 1993.

First of all, let me explain the spelling. My parents divorced when I was fairly young and both remarried rather quickly. This meant that my grandparents doubled in size in a short period of time. In order to separate them in my head, I gave them each different spellings or words. Weird? Yes. But this is me, after all. Anyway, my maternal grandparents became Gramma and Grampa; my paternal grandparents stayed Grandma and Grandpa; my step-maternal Gramma Carol and Grampa Bob; my step-paternal grandparents Papa and Grandma Lydia.

Okay, so to give you a little input about my grampa, he was a farmer, an upholsterer and a landlord and probably the hardest working man I’ve ever met in my life. He was also the sweetest and most caring man I knew growing up, and it is no wonder I found someone with many of the same qualities to be my partner in life. While my gramma was a fierce secret keeper (who at the same time hated lies, but contradictions run deep in my family) my grampa couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. His honesty would also land him in minor trouble with my gramma, like the time I made Cream of Wheat for breakfast and he proclaimed he’d never had it without lumps before.

Grampa was always curious how I was doing in school, when he was going to get my latest book and genuinely interested in just getting to know me as a person. I’m sure he was like that with all of the grandkids, but he made our relationship special by having one-on-one time together, whether it was helping him with barn and pasture chores or going to get breakfast at Freddy’s.

Looking back, I wonder if he would approve of how his family has shaped up. I wonder if either him or my gramma would approve of the actions and choices some people have made. Honestly, I don’t know if he ever would’ve let our family split the way it has, but at the same time, while second chances were always warranted, I don’t think he would have tolerated a third or stood by while some members of his family were victims to crimes while other members of his family stood by the person who committed the crimes against them.

Personally, I will always remember the grampa who never failed to have a kind word and outreached arms to welcome you in with a hug. I will always remember the grampa who let me take the first taste of a salt lick before setting it out for the cows. I will always remember the grampa who let me drive the tractor long before I ever should’ve been allowed to and later their brand new Cadillac before I had my driver’s license. Happy birthday, Grampa.