The JackB

"When you're in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out. A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying, 'Damn, that was fun'." Groucho Marx

Life and Death

Beloved Wife

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A few days ago I sat on the phone with my grandfather and listened to him talk about my grandmother. Slowly the talk turned to how much he missed her and I felt very badly as I heard him begin to choke up. He misses her terribly and hopes that she recognized how much she meant to him.

So grandma, if by some chance you are out there, somewhere and you can find some way to let grandpa know, please do it. We all miss you, but he lost the love of his life and that is something a little bit different.

And thank you again for everything, your great grandchildren still talk about your 75th anniversary party and watching you dance with grandpa. For a brief moment they got a glimpse of my grandparents and understood how very active and full of life you were.

Got to go now, it is time for me take off the grandson hat and go be dad again.

“You were the love
for certain of my life
you were simply my beloved wife
I don’t know for certain
how I’ll live my life
now alone without my beloved wife
my beloved wife

I can’t believe
I’ve lost the very best of me

you were the love
for certain of my life
you were simply my beloved wife
I don’t know for certain
how I’ll live my life
now alone without my beloved wife
my beloved wife

I can’t believe
I’ve lost the very best of me

you were the love
for certain of my life
for 50 years simply my beloved wife
with another love I’ll never lie again
it’s you I can’t deny
it’s you I can’t defy
a depth so deep
into my grief
without my beloved soul
I renounce my life
as my right
now alone without my beloved wife
my beloved wife

my beloved wife
my love is gone she suffered long
in hours of pain
my love is gone
now my suffering begins
my love is gone
would it be wrong if I should
surrender all the joy in my life
go with her tonight?

my love is gone she suffered long
in hours of pain
my love is gone
would it be wrong if I should
just turn my face away from the light
go with her tonight?”
Beloved Wife– Natalie Merchant

You "Do" For Family

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“When you get an exasperating letter what happens? If you are young, you answer it promptly, instantly–and mail the thing you have written. At forty what do you do? By that time you have found out that a letter written in passion is a mistake in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred.”
– Mark Twain, a Biography

“An old, cold letter ….makes you wonder how you could ever have got into such a rage about nothing.”
– Mark Twain, a Biography

My paternal grandfather is certainly one of my heroes.  In a month it will be four years since he died and I miss him as much now as I ever have. It is still strange to me that he has already missed out on sharing so many monumental events. It is sometimes hard to hear my daughter say that she doesn’t remember him at all.

If you show her his picture she can tell you who he is but nothing more than that. Neither of the kids have a clear understanding of just how much influence he had upon my life and why I hold on so tightly to the memories. That is ok, I don’t expect it of them.

Lately I have been thinking about him more frequently. Much of that can be attributed to various events that have taken place, some good and some bad. But all of them enough to merit my wanting to talk to him about it. It would be nice to share some of the good things and to get his advice on the trickier items.

I don’t have to close my eyes to hear him tell me that it is not smart to let your temper make decisions for you or that you can’t screw an old head on young shoulders. Not hard for me to remember him teaching me how to throw a punch or that putting a roll of quarters in your fist is an effective way to add a little kick to your punch.

Grandpa was a character of the first order and a man who understood that sometimes you “do” for family. It is a lesson that I am passing along to my children. They need to understand that “doing” for your family is something that isn’t always an option. Things happen and sometimes you adjust your schedule to take care of your siblings, parents, cousins or uncles.

We have conversations about this, the children and I. We talk about what helping out means and why it doesn’t always make sense to throw money at a problem. We talk about how actions are important and what that means.

My daughter says that she is not afraid because she knows that I will protect her. Her big brother corrects her and says that “dad will protect everyone, including his parents and sisters.” It leads into a back and forth between the two of them about what I will do and whether I would kill people who want to hurt the family.

For a moment I am silent, grateful that they feel this support. Grateful that they announce that they will do the same for me, but not until I really old, maybe in my fifties.

Sitting alongside them I wonder if I need to say more about it. I don’t really like this talk about killing. They are right about one thing, I am the guy who will protect them. Jump in front of the bus, run into a burning building or take a bullet. To quote Superchicken, I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.

Of course I’ll do it. Just ask my sisters and then tell you that I have spent the last 39 years looking out for them, whether they wanted it or not. Grandpa and my dad bear some of the responsibility for that. Now I can’t help it, it is innate this desire to watch out for them.

But it is hard not to feel a little bit badly about this. She is short of six and he is almost ten and they are aware that there are bad people. Before we go to crowded places we have the conversation about being careful to stay together. I rarely say anything about bad things happening. I just say that I don’t want them to get lost, but invariably one of them will mention not wanting bad people to take them.

It is a sad commentary, their awareness. Fortunately they don’t walk around exhibiting signs of paranoia or fear. They aren’t afraid to go out in public, just cautious about who, when and where. Not such a bad thing.

The telephone rings and I answer. I hear my son say that “dad is angry.” My daughter agrees and tries to ask me what is going on. My sister is on the line telling me about a situation she is involved in. I am not angry with her and I am not about to share the story with my kids. It is none of their business and there is no reason for them to be involved.

I give my sister some advice and offer further assistance if she needs it. It surprises me a little bit that the kids picked up on my anger so quickly. I ask them what they saw and they tell me that I did that thing with my eyes. I am not entirely sure what that means, but they say that whenever they see it they know that someone is in trouble.

Smiling at them both I tell them that I wasn’t angry, just concerned. They tell me that they think I was angry. I respond and tell them that I try not to make any decisions when I am angry because giving in to your temper can help you make bad choices.

The matter is handled and we move onto other things. Later that night I’ll think about it all and wonder if I should have spent more time talking with them again about why it is important to help family. Alone with my thoughts I ponder and consider it.

And just before I slip into unconsciousness I think that this is another one of those grandpa moments. Would have been nice to speak with him about it. Can’t say that I would have done anything differently, but that’s ok. Sometimes all you want is that friendly ear.

Loss- A Familiar Pain

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Many years ago I worked with a woman who had two dogs. I can’t tell you much about the dogs. I don’t remember names, breeds or much of anything other than she loved them. Loved them so much that when one dog died she had to take time off from work.

I remember being surprised by this. I had grown up with pets who were part of the family. We had dogs, cats, hamsters, mice and birds. Not all at the same time, but they were a constant part of my childhood. I was familiar with loving my pets but not to the extent that this woman did.

I was a 27 year-old newlywed who lived in a modest apartment. She was about four foot nothing in her stockings and couldn’t have weighed more than a 100 pounds. A tiny single mother whose child had gone off to college she had no one but her dogs. Or so I think.

So many years have passed it is hard to remember and it is possible that some of the grains of time have become lodged in my eye and consequently have blurred the details.

What I know for certain, what I can say without hesitation is that I thought of her as being old and was quite surprised at how upset she became when her dog died. I understood that it was hard, but I didn’t quite get how it required time away from work.

But age and life experience have helped to bridge the gap and I understand things a little bit better now than I did then. Because the truth is that I still miss my old friend.

This past weekend we took the new puppy to see the vet. The same vet that the big lug used to see. As I stood there I remembered when he was just a puppy, far bigger than the new guy, but just as curious. I stood there and remembered how he used to prance around the house and how we’d play together.

And then I remembered how it was at the end. The struggle to walk, the incontinence and other indignities of old age. How hard it was to make the decision to let him go and how the light went out in his eyes in the same room that I was standing in.

As screwy as it may sound, I felt a twang of guilt. I felt sad that he was gone and that I wasn’t able to do more for him. He was the best of friends and a trusted confidant who was taken away far too early. And I realize that every time I see a Golden Retriever I look for him.

He’s not coming back. There won’t be another like him. There will be other dogs and the bond between the new one and I is growing daily. I suppose that I just felt like I needed to put it out there that he hasn’t been replaced. His memory lives on with me.

The Cemetery- Who Is In the Box

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Old Jewish Cemetery, Vienna

I woke up a little bit before six and slowly realized that whatever I had been dreaming about had been disturbing. Tried to relax for a moment to see if memory would serve me a few images to digest but got nothing. Nada, ephus, bubkis.

Can’t tell you what it was that made me uneasy, won’t speculate either. What I can tell you is that grandma’s funeral is later today and I am surprised by feeling completely unready for it. Shocked by the feeling of unease and discontent, unprepared for it entirely.

As I move through the house it is a blend of morning rituals. Kids are moving slowly, getting ready for school at a snail’s pace. That is no different than any other day. I am supposed to have a conference call at 7 A.M. but it has been canceled today. I shuffle into the bathroom and close the door, a temporary refuge.

I look in the mirror and see dark circles beneath my eyes, lines in my forehead and a very thick beard. As I stand there I realize I am looking for a 12 year old boy or maybe someone a bit younger. It strikes me that I am 30 years too late. The grandson I seek isn’t here anymore.

That boy’s memories are…still here. And they swirl around inside. They remember going to a cousin’s funeral and seeing the casket. They remember being shocked and surprised then and tears. My tears. I cried and I cried hard. They remember the frustration I felt at not being to hold it together like the men I saw around me.

My grandfather put his arm around me. Even today I can still feel it. Can still smell him. And I remember how after the funeral it was just him and I in the car. And I remember how at my grandmother’s funeral seven years ago I helped him stand on the somewhat uneven ground of the hillside.

Time and age had blessed him with a cane and legs that weren’t so steady. So I stood next to him and when he needed to rest he leaned against me just as I had done years before.

++++++++

Spent time talking with my son about what will happen today. Tried to prepare him for how things would go. Told him the order of things and that he should expect his aunts to cry…hard. Told him that they cry hard at weddings too, it is just how they are. Nothing wrong with it, but he hasn’t seen them like that and I didn’t want him to be scared.

Told him that grandpa may cry too and that I expect my mother, his grandmother to cry also. And during all this it will be ok if he cries too. He looks up at me and asks, “will you cry dad?”

It is not judgemental, just a question. I purse my lips and consider how to answer. I don’t cry easily and if I do it tends to be in private. I tell him that I am not sure and excuse myself to go to the bathroom. I am conflicted.

Grandpa is doing pretty well, all things considered. He told me about how he discovered that grandma was gone. They were lying in bed together hold hands and suddenly he realized that something wasn’t right. She didn’t cry out or make any sort of noise. Her hand was warm in his, but he could tell something was off. So he called for a nurse. She came in and confirmed what he already knew.

When the mortuary came he made certain he was out of the room. “I can’t see her like that. Can’t watch them stick her in a box.” He and I are sitting in the living room of my parent’s house and I am listening to him talk. His voice alternates between strength and weakness.

He grabs onto my wrist and squeezes it, works to compose himself. My daughter is just across the room, entertaining herself. She is singing softly and I remember how she used to hold onto me like that too. How her little hand would grab mine as she would fight to stand up or to try and walk.

Grandma used to love watching her do that and so did I. I can hear my mother and my aunt talking in a different room, but something is off. And then I realize that I am straining to hear grandma talking to her girls, but she is not because she can’t.

More images and memories run through my mind. Grandpa looks amazing for 96. No ever guesses his age, they are always about ten years off. I wonder if that will be what it is like for me. There in the silence I try to imagine what it must be like to be him. Born during the first world war he has vague memories of soldiers returning home. Stories about how he would help out one of his uncles by riding along in a horse drawn cart and delivering various things.

The kids are yelling now. My daughter and a nephew are chasing a son through the house. I want to let that go for a minute. They are reacting to the strong emotions that are stirring around them. At the same time I know that grandpa won’t last with it, too much noise. I let them make another lap and then ask them to be quieter.

Grandpa looks at me and says that my voice carries quite well and I realize that he was thinking about the little boy that I can’t find too.

Moments later my father asks me to help my sisters with something. Chances are that they need me to get something down, too short to reach it on their own.

The kids are almost ready for school. The funeral is in the afternoon so they’ll attend a partial day. I share a few more words with them, kiss them and send them out the door. And then words come spilling into my mind, “who is in the box?”

Don’t know why I think that, just that I do. The box is my grandmother’s coffin. In a short time I will see it and wonder if she is really in it. I’ll stare at it and wonder if perhaps she won’t suddenly jump out and yell surprise knowing full well that she won’t.

Monday night at the hospital she and I are alone in the room. She is partially sedated and for the moment lying quietly in bed. I bend over in a quiet voice say that I love her and that it is ok. The unspoken words lie thick in my throat and I realize that I have just said goodbye.

A short time later I walk down the hallway, press the call button for the elevator. Standing there I know that this is the last time I am going to make this walk.

The kids are at school and the house is quiet. Now it is just me, my iPod, the computer and you, whomever you are reading this. Time to eat breakfast and consider whether I wish to share any words graveside. I am not ready for this, not yet.

But some choices are made for us or so I tell my children. Guess that today I’ll have to show them that dad abides by his words too. And so it goes.

Dad, I Didn’t Get To say Goodbye

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Grandma died the night of my 14th wedding anniversary. With the news of her departure a night of nostalgic reminiscing took on new meaning. As is obvious by this post and the prior one I have been thinking about it all and have decided to continue to chronicle my thoughts, feelings and ideas here.

Chicago has always played a big role in my life. It is where my grandmother and many other families were born and raised. I have teased most of the family about our great inability to find a decent pizza or steak in the Windy City so I thought that the song above kind of fit the tone. And of course I have to include Sweet Home Chicago if for no other reason than it lightens my mood and makes me smile.

This morning I told the children about grandma and received the expected responses from them. My daughter kind of shrugged her shoulders. The dark haired beauty is 5.5 and death is still a bit foreign to her. She understands that grandma is gone, but the weight and the import of the moment aren’t the same for her. When she heard she smiled, hugged and kissed me.

Two comments for future reference. 1) Again this is partially indicative of her age. She doesn’t completely understand. 2) She understands that I am upset and set out to console me. This made me both happy and scared. She understands me far too well. I am going to have to remember this as she continues to ply her charms upon me to get what she wants.

But I digress, somewhat intentionally. Her older brother is in many ways a clone of me. Still waters run deep. When we are happy we are ecstatic and when we are truly sad we are…sad.

Upon hearing the news he burst into tears and shouted that he didn’t get to say goodbye. And that was heart breaking in itself. He understands what it means to die. He knows that it means that the spirit has left the body and there is no more communication face-to-face.

I didn’t tell him that she is in a better place or that he is going to get to see her one day. I rarely say things like that even though I may believe them to be true, or at least think that it is possible. I didn’t because I want him to think about some of these things and come up with answers that work for him.

Spiritual matters are very personal. It has always been important to me that my children receive a Jewish upbringing and education. And I want them to live their lives that way, but at the same time I want them to ask questions of themselves. I want them to figure out what they think and what they believe.

My job is to mentor, teach, guide and whenever necessary direct. And believe me there are things that I make clear are black and white. I may give them room for their own thought, but there is only so much play in that rope. Most of this is just training in how to pick a part a situation and find the truth of the matter.

So when the big guy asks me why she died without having a chance to say goodbye I tell him the truth, that could happen at any time to any of us. I also work on reassuring him that his immediate family is filled with healthy people who are highly unlikely to die. Thus far I think that it has worked.

But still, he is nervous about his great grandfather as well as his grandparents. Not to mention his question of myself as to whether I think I might die soon. I tell him that soon is a very broad term and that I can be specific. I run through the ages of my grandparents and remind him that we have excellent genes. It is not uncommon for us to live into our nineties.

And then I talk about science and medical advancements and how we have access to things that the great grandparents don’t. He nods his head and I see that the logic of the argument is working. He get’s it, he is calming down, but I know that he’ll go to school with a stew of emotions boiling beneath the surface.

I have about 2.5 hours until I see him again. We’ll see what other questions he has or does not have. In the interim I am off to my parent’s home. There is work to be done and I am taking on as much as I can. It is an interesting role I find myself in; Father/son/grandson/brother.

Time to wear to my many hats- see you later,

Back With More Bad News

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My grandmother died a short time ago. It wasn’t unexpected but it happened a little bit faster than I had anticipated. And now I am sitting at the computer, trying to process it all. I don’t think that it has sunk in yet, not completely.

The call came a few minutes after midnight, I didn’t have to look at the caller ID to know that it was bad news, what else do you hear about late at night or early in the morning. Twenty years ago if the phone rang then it would have been a girl friend or friend with benefits. Twenty years ago it might have been one of the boys looking for a ride home or a shoulder to cry on.

Those days are gone and I have come to dread those late night calls because they almost always mean that someone is gone.

My grandmother is gone. The woman who used to take my sisters and I on long walks is here no longer. The woman who had more energy than anyone I ever met has finally run out and the world is a sadder place for it.

Across town my mother, aunt and a sister are sitting with my grandfather, who after 75 years of marriage is now a widower. My heart breaks for him more than anyone.

They met when they were 11 and spent the next 85 years together, a lifetime. It is not a tragic loss, she lived a long and full life. But my grandfather’s world just collapsed into a million pieces. And there is nothing that I can offer to fix that other than soft words of encouragement.

And will I offer those. I will do all that I can to help. Every thought, idea, trick I can come up with will be his, but I know that in the end it will fall short and for that I am sorry.

Sometimes words are simply inadequate or perhaps the shortcoming lie in the person who wishes to be wordsmith. At the moment I don’t know what to say or rather I don’t like what I am saying so I keep deleting and rewriting.

It is not my way, at least not on the blog. Here in my corner of cyberspace the words flow like water down a rocky stream. Here is where I would give you a better description of the woman my grandmother was and why she was so deserving of our love.

But the words fail me. I cannot translate that which I see in my head to paper. So in a few moments I will shut down the computer. In the morning I will resume my role as father and I will have to tell my children that grandma has gone. I need some time to think about what I want to say so for now this will be it.

I’ll share more thoughts and ideas about grandma later, for now let me say that I loved her very much and I will miss her more. We aren’t given that many grandmothers and now I have none. The world is indeed a darker place.