Well, the funeral weekend is upon us. As I sip on scotch in an attempt to reach through my palate to the history of my deceased grandfather and his forefathers, I also fight through a tightness in the face, chest, and abdomen. Rumor has it that my predictions are coming true, that my being unwilling to attend funeral proceedings will be viewed as disrespectful, leading one or more parties to consider no longer speaking to me. The primary reason why I am not attending the funeral is of course because it is an indoor gathering of people during a pandemic, and at least one of those people is already reportedly ill with some sort of respiratory infection. So yes, I will be ostracized for preventing harm, as my oaths require, and those who continuously mocked the virus and those who fight it will be in attendance, as will the person or persons who gave my grandfather the virus that would give rise to the whole occasion. But I am seen as the selfish one. That being said, I dislike playing the victim, so I will attempt to move on from this preoccupying digression. And I genuinely wish that I could be there.
October 19, 1931 - January 18, 2021
One thing that I thought was so romantic in the most old fashioned sense was how my grandfather proposed to my grandmother by post. I never asked specifically about their dating experience, but it is my understanding that they met in London, and he was only there for a few weeks before taking a job in Kenya. From there, he presumably continued dating her by mail. If I recall correctly, it was a matter of months between meeting and proposal. According to him, the reason why she said "yes" was because "he had a job". They had grown up during the Great Depression, so job security was obviously an enviable thing, but how wonderful that they would remain apparently happily wed for the rest of their lives until she passed. He would say of her that when he was a "maybe", she would make it a "yes" or "no" in a given important decision. He was charming, kind, and intelligent, but she brought a balance to it that I unfortunately never had the chance to learn to appreciate. I wish that I had asked better questions of her. But then again, the only way I ever obtained full answers from my grandfather was by having meals with him without parents or relatives. An unfortunate thing about having a funny family that thinks highly of themselves is that they love to hear themselves talk. I say this as someone who is quite aware of my own tendencies in this area.
The first time my brother and I went out to eat alone with my grandfather last year, he had something to show us. The gleam in his eye and his giddiness was reminiscent of a child who had managed to catch a frog by the creek. It was a card indicating a prepaid cremation, all expenses covered, just as his wife had had when she passed.
I think back to the last time I saw him. It was December 26, 2020. I had seen him earlier that week, but I had also skipped Christmas festivities, and as his cognition was leaving him, seeing people on these occasions were becoming a more treasured thing. We had dinner at our city's British pub. Covid cases were quite high at the time, but the pub was clearly at least at half capacity rather than the required quarter capacity. As at many meals in recent months, I scraped my brain for any question to ask him about his past, any new story to learn from him that evening. This is of course an occasion where if I could go back, I would have just asked him about anything, old or new. And wow, the thought of speaking with him again really brought tears running down my face. I admittedly thought that I "took care" of that in previous writings, but this must be what grief is. I imagine asking him to tell me about when he wrote the charter for a school in Kenya, and hearing his tone as he minimized his role and emphasized the impact that it would have on a young girl's life in such a time and place in the world. Picturing him describing the Terracotta Army and how amazed he was at the detail of the carvings, or about his novel teachings on the book of Revelation, or, more exciting, telling us about growing up during the London bombings of WWII. I had asked him why he took the job in Kenya after he had just acquired one in London, and he referenced the romanticized concept of British colonialism. As someone who has traveled more extensively than most at my age, I assured him that it was quite understandable.
Once, a dear friend of mine and her boyfriend were in town. Our family was having dinner at a hibachi grill restaurant, and I invited this friend to join us. They came and it was a lovely time. At the end of the meal, I assured them that they would not need to pay, as my grandparents were generous in these things. My friend, however, went aside to them and handed him cash in an almost desperate manner. In a rare moment of openly genuine sincerity, he returned the paper bills to her hands and said, "Keep the money. Your presence tonight was the payment."
Regardless of my many complaints about this family, I grew up in immense privilege, and it is easy to say without reservation that this man's influence changed my world in positive ways that I will never know nor be able to articulate. As my sister once put it, "he's the man who gave me everything." But you cannot have a proper legacy without bookends to the start and finish.
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