The Last Grandparent

My last grandparent passed away a little over four years ago, a month or so shy of her next birthday. Which would’ve been today.

I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to write about it. Perhaps it’s because it’s not an easy subject. Maybe it’s because I prefer to write about other things, and not my personal life. Maybe it’s because I’ll never be able to write something as beautiful as Puja Patel’s farewell to her grandfather.

Maybe it’s because I’m not special — we’ve all lost a grandparent or other loved one. What makes me so different than everyone else?

I’m not special. But maybe writing about her will help others who may be experiencing a loss.

All I know is, four years have passed, and while I am as peace with my loss as I ever will be, there’s still a void in my life, and the life of everyone else who knew my grandmother, Janet.

Let’s start, as they say, from the beginning.

Childhood

I only had three grandparents growing up — my dad’s mom passed away nine years before I was born. I’m not even sure my dad had met my mom yet, I know they weren’t married until three years after my grandmother Adele died.

Perhaps I was extra close with Janet because while I had two grandfathers, she was my only grandmother. Or maybe because I was her only grandchild for the first 16 years of my life, thus leading her to spoil me. I do know that every time I was sent off to stay with her and my grandfather for a weekend or a few summer days, I was excited.

See, here’s the thing — as an only child, I tended to get my way. Probably more so than is healthy. But it was one thing at home and another at grandma and grandpa’s. When I visited, grandma always gave me say in dinner choices, and I always got my favorite dessert (Jello pudding. I’d switch between vanilla and chocolate). This wasn’t always the case at home — sometimes I had input in dinner, but sometimes mom was making or buying what she and my dad wanted and that was that.

Grandma also managed to make healthy meals that I, an especially picky eater, would eat. I rarely fought her on this — although my grandfather would say I should try more greens because it “would put hair on my chest” — but I did drive my parents crazy sometimes when it came time to eat. I did this to my best friends’ parents, too, when dining at their homes. I was a little pain in the ass, but somehow I mostly checked my intransigence at the door when I got to grandma’s house.

This continued over to other aspects of my life. At home I never wanted to go to bed on time — I always pushed to stay up and read or watch TV. And getting me out of bed in the morning could be a Herculean task. But at Grandma’s? I respected bedtime (always after the first weather report on the 9 o’clock news) and usually got out of bed in the morning with no fuss. Even when I was older and allowed to stay up for the 10 o’clock news (being a news nerd, I liked news anchors Carol Marin and Ron Magers on our local NBC affiliate. Fun fact, Carol is still working for the same NBC station, and I met her during some of my college work.) and the Tonight Show monologue, I never abused the privilege. I put myself to bed when I was supposed to.

When she tucked me in, Grandma would sit with me as I said my prayers — something I didn’t do with my parents at home. She and her husband Ralph were Lutheran but not overtly religious. However, they were fairly devout about going to church every Sunday.

Yep, church was another thing I did with my grandparents that I didn’t do at home. My dad gave up on dragging me to mass after a while — I was too interested in sleeping in.

Not the case at Grandma’s. Nope — I was out of bed and dressed for mid-morning services and we’d get a nice lunch afterwards. I rarely complained.

That was the thing about going to Grandma’s — I was always so excited to go that I wanted to be on my best behavior. That’s not because my life at home was bad — it wasn’t perfect, but I had a good home life with my parents and was generally content — but because seeing Grandma (and Grandpa) was such a treat.

It was also different. At home, there was always something going on outside of school. I was playing Little League or YMCA basketball, or my friends and I were getting together for pickup games in the park or hanging at someone’s house. Indeed, my best friend’s house seemed to be the gathering place for all the neighborhood kids within our age range — I spent so much time there that my parents would intuitively know where I was if I wasn’t home (remember, kids had more freedom to roam in the ’80s, and we didn’t have cell phones).

Otherwise, I was tagging along to my dad’s softball games or hanging out at the business my parents ran. When there was downtime, I was reading, or watching TV, or playing video games. So many video games.

Grandma’s house, by contrast, was peaceful. Not many kids my age around their subdivision, and my grandparents didn’t really know those families anyway. My video games obviously didn’t come with me (at least not until I got a Gameboy), and they didn’t have cable TV, so I had to be creative to have fun.

Sure, grandma would play catch or hide and seek with me at times, but she often asked me to go play while she ran the house. She spent her days cleaning and doing laundry (despite having a clothes dryer, she still used an outdoor clothesline when the weather was nice) and prepping for dinner. If she had downtime, she’d pick up the phone and ring her friends — I heard a lot of gossip about who had just died, divorced, or became a grandparent over the years.

Meanwhile, I’d play with my Matchbox cars (in what may have been a preview of my current career, I used to set up auto shows with the toy cars) or shoot a plastic hockey puck into a small net in the basement. Or I’d read or play Gameboy. Eventually, the couple across the street had a son, and he and I would play sometimes, but until he came along, I felt like the only kid in town.

Writing it out now, it sounds a little boring. And at times, I was bored. But I relished the peace. Moreover, I was happy to be around my grandmother. I loved hanging with my friends, and I loved (and still love) my parents, but being around her was always a happy time in a different way.

This is partly because she was just a joy to be around. Sure she occasionally got angry or raised her voice at me if I deserved it, but any outburst of temper tended to be relatively tame and pass quickly. She had a way of efficiently doing whatever she was doing, be it housework or errands, without drama. Her mood was almost always sunny, and she was almost always kind to myself and others. So maybe I was doing more fun things at home — but even just watching the noon news with her on a quiet summer day made me feel happy, at peace with the world.

Then Grandpa would come home and the solitude would be broken. The vibe would change, but remain positive. Grandpa Ralph had a presence.

The Grandfather

I can’t talk about my grandma without talking about my grandfather, Ralph. A stocky, strong man who’d moved from factory worker to farmer, he was gruff, but never mean. A man of few words, but still able to crack the occasional sly joke. A man of routine. The opposite of my dad’s dad, who was a chatty storyteller. Ralph was Army, Larry was Navy. Ralph saw combat in WWII, Larry was stationed near Baltimore. Ralph didn’t smoke, Larry did. Ralph was Midwest to the core, Larry never fully left the East Coast behind when left Connecticut.

Ralph started his days early — I was rarely awake when he left to help my uncle farm corn or soybeans. He arrived home at 4 or 4:30 each afternoon, and he wanted dinner ASAP. Really, the only time I saw my grandparents bicker is when dinner wasn’t ready and Ralph got grumpy. Janet would give it right back to him, a few soft swears might be uttered, then all would be forgiven and we’d eat.

He always carried a lunch pail and thermos to work. After dinner, he wanted coffee and we’d watched PBS — either nature shows or Western movies from the ’50s. Sometimes we’d snack on cashews. I remember he always drank his coffee from a mug with a sunflower on the side, and I remember feeling bad that my grandma had to keep cleaning that mug, even though she had a dishwasher. It wasn’t until I was well into my 30s and Ralph was no longer living that I noticed during a visit to the house that there were four identical mugs in the cabinet — a set. So much for observational skills.

Ralph rarely drank, but he’d occasionally down an Old Style or two. He always wanted to move on to the next thing — if we went out to eat a restaurant, he’d want to get in the car as soon as the check was paid. He also had a thing for toothpicks. He never seemed to leave a restaurant without one in his mouth.

He was a devout General Motors man — he didn’t have anything kind to say about Fords. Grandma always drove a Buick or Oldsmobile (although her last car was a Chevy), and he always had a Chevy or GMC truck. They were usually leased so that each of them would have a new car every two or three years. His brand loyalty extended to International Harvester when it came to farm equipment — but only because he once bent the auger on a John Deere combine and blamed his mistake on the brand.

I sometimes had a hard time connecting with him — I liked sports, he barely cared about them. Video games were an alien concept to him, and if it wasn’t a Western or a nature show or the news, he didn’t have much interest. I’m a city kid, he was a country boy.

That doesn’t mean he never played catch with me — he did. And we could talk about some things, such as farming. I often tagged along when he was in the tractor or combine, sitting on the armrest as he farmed. When he got his CDL and the farm got an 18-wheeler, I’d ride with when he hauled the grain across the county.

His nickname for me was Butch, and while he wasn’t the world’s biggest outdoorsman, he did sometimes take me fishing at a creek near a cornfield, showing me how to put a worm on a hook. Country singer Luke Bryan memorialized his grandfather in a song about a tackle box, and just like the Nashville star, I still remember my Grandpa’s: A brown and tan Plano unit.

He’d sometimes stop us to pick sweet corn for dinner from the edge of a cornfield. He also loved taking grandma and I to an old bridge near town and going for a stroll across it. Walking in a nearby state park was also a favorite after dinner activity on those evenings when we ate out.

Ralph was a World War II vet who saw combat. When I was a teen, I became interested in American history, and I couldn’t wait to pick his brain about the war. He dragged out an old shoebox which contained his travel papers, a few pictures from his time in the Army, at least one medal, an etiquette guide to Switzerland, and his gun. I was fascinated. I asked him about combat, and if he’d killed anyone (he worked a large artillery weapon), and if he saw anyone die. He gave me perhaps the sternest look he’d ever given me and would only say “war is hell,” no matter how I rephrased the question. I dropped it, but I could sense that the war left scars.

Only when I asked about his time as a member of an American unit occupying Switzerland in the immediate aftermath of the war did he open back up.

The man of few words used even fewer to talk about the war.

Ralph had been a healthy man who avoided vice and junk food, but that didn’t stop his health from deteriorating quickly in 2005 and 2006. When he was placed in a nursing home just blocks from where he’d lived since 1987, the end had begun. Over the next three years, I saw my grandfather fade — but I also saw my grandmother at her best.

Janet took an eye medication each night that was supposed to prevent her from driving after dark, but it didn’t stop her from visiting Ralph almost every day. She kept running the household while taking care of him. I visited the home many times over the last three years of Ralph’s life, and I never saw members of other families visit their loved ones as much.

Janet would sit there, talking sweetly to my grandfather, even as his mental abilities declined and his memory vanished. He eventually went mostly non-verbal, and it could be tough to tell if he heard us or even knew we were there. But she just kept at it, talking to us like normal and then turning to him and talking to him with loving terms like “honey,” “dear,” and “sweetie.” It’s been a decade since he died and I still, to this day, have not witnessed love and devotion on that level. Not in real life. In a movie, sure, but not in real life.

If you remember nothing else from this long read, remember that. That’s the best illustration of who Janet was. If she loved you, she was totally devoted. She’d be there for you. And she was there for her husband for three long years from the time he entered the nursing home until he died, with us gathered at his bedside as he took his last breath.

He could not have picked a better wife to be by his side as he faded from this world.

The Great Grandmother

Just like I can’t talk about Janet without mentioning Ralph, I also cannot talk about her without mentioning her mother. Janet got a lot of her personality from her mom, Dorothy. Like my grandmother, my great-grandmother was a kind woman who’d do almost anything for those she loved. She spent most of her later years taking care of another relative who was blind and mostly deaf.

She loved Christmas — and she died the day after the holiday. I sometimes wonder if her holding on for one more day was a sign of something from above.

She also had a habit of mixing up names and immediately correcting herself — I have a relative named Kim and great-grandma got “Kim” and “Tim” mixed up frequently. This habit would be picked up by her daughter during the final few years of Janet’s life.

Dorothy was a big-hearted woman who loved the holidays and would do anything for those she loved. Apples usually don’t fall far from trees.

The House

I don’t remember the house my grandparents lived in for the first few years of my life. All I recall is the ugly linoleum floor in the kitchen and the high traffic count of the busy road it was situated on.

But when they moved to another part of the Chicago area, the next house became the center of attention. Not every family gathering was held there, but most were. Perhaps 80 percent, if I had to guess.

It’s a small two-bedroom, two-bath ranch on a corner lot in a quiet subdivision in a suburb that edges up against the countryside. At the wake, I found out my grandparents moved there because Ralph wanted to move to a farm but Janet would not move to the country. That was the compromise. Funny, that, because sometimes she implored me to move closer to them, even using the word “country.” As in “why don’t you move out here to the country?”

The house was pure Janet. Grandpa had his recliner, but the rest of the house was all her. She kept it clean and tidy, and even near the end she was mostly able to stay on top of housework. We did discover that she’d moved some messes out of sight, but for the most part, the house never fell into disrepair or clutter.

During those aforementioned family gatherings, she never sat down. She always waited on us, even when we told her we could take care of ourselves and she should sit and eat. She had to be the best hostess. If she didn’t take care of her guests, it felt wrong to her.

Going to Grandma’s was a treat because of the mood in the house. It always felt cozy and warm, a peaceful place to be.

Grandma usually knew we were coming, and she’d open the garage door for us. We rarely entered via the front door. On the occasions that we did, it felt weird and too formal. No, you came in through the kitchen and got a warm welcome, because that’s the mood she set.

If you were to drive by the house today, you’d notice that one of the three bushes near the front is a bit flat. That’s because one Christmas, a bit over a decade ago, we bought a TV for Grandma and Grandpa. One of the last of the big tube TVs before flat screens took over the market. As my dad, uncle, and I walked it in, I lost my grip on the box. This caused my dad to slip, going tumbling into the bushes. Dad was fine, but the bush never did heal right. It still looked flat when we cleaned out the house.

The End

Over the final few years of her life, my grandma’s health was slowly declining, but never to the point that I was truly alarmed. She’d lost weight and seemed to “shrink,” but her mind remained mostly sharp. She did occasionally wander into tangents while talking, and like her mother before her, she started to get my name mixed up with Kim’s, although she always corrected herself immediately.

One day, she went to the doctor for a routine medical procedure, and my mom and my aunt noticed that she didn’t seem all there mentally. By the end of that weekend, she was in the hospital, and within a week or so, my dad and I were sitting at her bedside, giving the rest of the family a break, when two paramedics took her to an end-of-life facility in my hometown (a place she’d never actually lived). I kissed her goodbye, hoping to see her at least one more time that coming weekend.

She was gone before I woke up the next morning.

That week was already going to be a whirlwind for me, due to a major work event and a wedding. The wedding and a work dinner helped me take my mind off my sadness, and my then-girlfriend was also extremely supportive. But there were times I just broke down.

Like the morning of her death, when I sat in the car crying for 20 minutes before going to my work event. Or later that same day, when I bought Valentine’s Day cards and broke down in the grocery store, because I’d never buy her another one. Or at the funeral, when my mother hugged me and said she’d just lost her best friend and weekend shopping buddy.

My mom wasn’t kidding about shopping buddy — there weren’t many weekends over the final few years of her life in which Janet wasn’t with my mom when I called. They’d been spending a lot of time together, sometimes joined by my aunt. My mom didn’t even get a real chance to say goodbye — I was the last blood relative to see her alive.

I live with my own loss as best I can — I knew I’d lose her someday. But the world lost someone strong, kind, and loving. I know many people think of their grandparents that way, but my grandmother was truly one of a kind, and the world will always be a bit darker without her.

She wasn’t perfect. She occasionally made racist comments that may have been socially acceptable among the World War II generation but made me cringe. She could be stubborn, and occasionally absent-minded. Sometimes she blamed a company or person for her own mistakes.

We all have foibles, and some of hers made us laugh. Others made we wince. I never did approve of her use of the word “colored,” and I don’t know if she’d have been able to handle it I dated a woman who wasn’t white.

She was old-school, that way. But that didn’t make her a bad person. She had the best kind of heart, and the world needs more of that.

She rests alongside my grandfather and her parents in a part of the Chicago metro area that business takes me to on a frequent basis. I stop at the cemetery whenever I can, and I remember my grandmother not as the woman who left this world in a hospice bed, tied to machines, but as warm-hearted woman she was.

I’ll never go to Grandma’s again, but the warmth of that home lives on in my heart, thanks my memories of her.

She’d have been 92 today. Happy birthday Grandma. Miss you.