You and Me, Pal

I didn’t know that was going to be the last time that I saw him. If I had, I would have stayed longer, hugged him one more time, or maybe said something to get just one more laugh out of him. Then again, if I had known, I wouldn’t have left. Not knowing was a blessing and a curse, but I still consider myself one of the lucky ones. The last words my grandfather spoke to me were, “I love you, Ash,” as he twirled a lock of my hair.

My grandfather had many names, each a badge of honor denoting a rank in life. He was “Dad” to my parents, “Papa” to my siblings and me, “Papa Pal” to his great-grandchildren, and “man with food” to a stray cat and a sedge of cranes. To everyone else, he was just “Mike”, a hardworking and generous man. It’s still hard to wrap my mind around the idea that he’s gone. After the death of a loved one, you hear stories. Stories of the good times, stories of the hard times, and stories that have you holding your side while you giggle through the tears asking someone to repeat themselves because you just can’t believe it. Stories keep our loved ones alive long after they leave us.

There are lots of stories about my papa that I could tell you. I could tell you of the things he said all the time, like his response whenever someone offered to help with a project, “it’s a one-man job, Pal,” or when he was trying to build an alliance in a game of cards, he would say, “it’s just you and me, Pal.” I could tell you funny stories, like the time he made a bet with my mom on the outcome of a boxing match that my mom didn’t know was recorded, or the time he walked into a closed screen door, bouncing off of it TWICE before he finally opened the door. I could tell you feel-good stories, like the time I was in the urgent care being treated for dehydration, and even though I told my family it was no big deal, my papa showed up to sit with me so I wouldn’t be alone, or how he would get gussied up with my dad to take my sister and I to the daddy-daughter dances so we could both go. There are so many stories that I could tell you, but the one that’s been on my mind recently is something small from my childhood.

My siblings and I are very close in age, my sister is eight months older than me, my brother a year and a week younger. I like to think that we were pretty good kids, but even pretty good kids are a handful when you’re outnumbered, so our parents didn’t go out often. When they did get a chance to sneak away, they took us to our grandparents’ house for the night. There were three things we could always count on when we went to our grandparents’ house. First, their dogs, Abbey and Rose, would lick us until we couldn’t breathe if we got down on their level. Second, grandma would make us oatmeal before bed. Third, papa would be reading, playing chess, or watching baseball.

When we arrived, pulling our tiny suitcases packed with our clothes and important toys, we brought them straight to our room to claim our beds. Then, as every adult would remind us over and over, we would be “careful by the stairs” as we made our way down the hall to the living room. Papa would relinquish control of the television to us when we were there, and he and grandma would endure hours of Looney Tunes, Scooby-Doo, or whatever VHS had struck our fancy at the time. Somewhere between coloring and television, grandma would make us big bowls of hot oatmeal that she poured generous amounts of milk in to cool them down. This was a delicious way to keep us occupied.

Every visit, there would inevitably come a time toward the end of the night that the three of us would get stir crazy and want to run around. Our game of choice: cops and robbers. This game was pretty much just all of us chasing each other around until someone declared that someone else had to go to jail… which was the couch. Now, our grandparents both worked, which meant that by the time we got dropped off to them, they had already put in a full day’s work. It wasn’t until I had two rambunctious little boys of my own, that I realized how brilliant my papa had been.

Papa couldn’t tell us that he was too tired, or that he didn’t want to play; it would have broken our little hearts. Instead, thinker that he was, he got himself put in jail immediately. While in jail, he would continue reading, watching tv, or whistling and singing - he was going to go pro one day. At random he’d wait for one of us to get close while running around like spastic little wind up toys, and pretend to pull us into the jail to peals of laughter from whoever he got. Then, he would be scolded for trying to pull one of the cops into the jail, but robbers scoff at such things.

During this round of cops and robbers, my brother was in jail with papa. To this day, I can’t remember what it was that they had done to get in jail, but he and papa weren’t fessing up. They were plotting and scheming their dastardly escape while us girls watched our prisoners from the dining room. They’d whisper back and forth, then look over at us, then go right back to plotting, but grandma had their number. She casually walked into the kitchen, out of sight of the jail. When she came back, she had three bowls of ice cream. One for my sister, one for me, the other she held up with a sigh and told the prisoners that only the cops got ice cream.

At this news, my brother jumped up yelling, “Papa did it! Papa did it!” then he ran to the table for his ice cream, while papa sat laughing and calling him a little worm for ratting him out. That’s the snapshot that’s flashed repeatedly through my mind in the weeks since he passed. Papa sitting on the couch smiling in faux disbelief.

Now, looking back over thirty-six years, it’s the little moments that stand out. It’s remembering him absentmindedly whistling. It’s remembering the way he laughed and how it lit up his whole face. It’s how he always offered to help with anything any of us needed. It’s how he was a constant presence in our lives regardless of what was going on in his. He was living proof that even as a grandfather, you never stop worrying about your kids.

This Father’s Day the world is one amazing father, grandfather, and great-grandfather lighter. He never did go pro, and we caught on to the card game alliance ploy pretty quickly, but I like to think that he left this life fulfilled. Until we meet again, Papa, Happy Father’s Day, and thank you for choosing us.