Today, it is raining. This isn't unusual given the time of year and my geographical location in this giant state, but when I woke up to this light shower it nonetheless surprised me. The rain is soft and steady, providing just enough moisture to my recently planted container garden of basil and cilantro and eggplant that I won't need to worry about watering them while we are gone.
Very soon, Lola and I will be traveling to attend a funeral. My grandfather, her great-grandfather, died and the service is this week.
His name was Charles.
I grew up calling him "Grandpa," occasionally referencing him as Grandpa (insert last name) when I was in the presence of both my maternal and paternal grandfathers. His friends called him Chuck. My grandmother called him Charlie.
He was born in a New York borough. His father chauffeured customers in what my family photo album said was "the first car that was built in America" and his mother was someone who had lived in an orphanage as a child and had no formal education.
He played football in high school and met my grandmother Rose when he was only 14 years old. When he arrived to pick her up for their first date, her father told him that she needed a chaperon. So, that day Rose, and her four sisters, went on their first date.
They were married when he was 18 and she was 19, and the ceremony took place in the most beautiful Catholic cathedral. There is a photo of them, the young bride and groom standing together, inside a stone church with my grandmother's train sweeping across the alter steps that if taken today would be worthy of the NY Times Celebrations section. Sometime soon after, my grandfather joined the military and traveled through Europe and Africa, fighting in World World II.
When he returned to the US, he began to work as a butcher in a local grocery store. He was a man who believed in unions. His butchering skills served him well into his retirement years as he was quite handy at carving the Thanksgiving turkey.
During the 1950's, my uncle Chuck and my father were born, and once they were in school, my grandmother went to work as a lunchroom lady in what would be, forty years later, the high school that my siblings and I would attend.
In his spare time, and once he retired, my grandfather would tie on a pair of roller skates and exercise. He skated in roller rinks, around his neighborhood lake, and just about any place you can imagine would allow him to roll. He competed in multiple Senior Olympics, always bringing home gold medals, and was even in the Guinness Book of World Records for being the oldest, fastest roller skating man on earth.
When I was three, he bought me my first pair of skates. I took to them easily and I remember challenging much older children to sprint races at the roller rink. Much to my grandfather's chagrin, I don't remember ever losing. Even though I exchanged my skates for track shoes and soccer cleats, he was a constant presence on the sidelines. In fact, he was the only family member present when I broke the high school record in the hurdles. I still remember, how, at the end of my race, all 75 years of him were jumping up and down at the finish line, ecstatic of my accomplishment.
During the summertime, my grandpa used to come pick us kids up in his little sea foam green toyota and drive us to his home where we would spend the afternoon racing back and forth in his condo's community pool. Afterward, he would take us to Thrifty where each one of us could have a single scoop of ice cream. We were allowed any flavor that our little hearts' desired. I usually chose rocky road, my sister picked rainbow sorbet, and my brother loved chocolate chip. He always bought an extra ice cream, black cherry flavored, and had it packaged to go, so we could take it home to our mother. He never bought himself ice cream. He didn't believe in sugar.
Thinking back, my most vivid memory of my grandpa isn't even a memory at all. What I remember most about him, was how much he loved my grandmother. They were always laughing and smiling together. They loved to play bingo and they always attended Saturday mass at their parish. When he would accidentally say, "dammit (fill in the blank)," she would screech, "Chaaarlie! Not in front of the children!" and we would giggle for we had heard the unknown.
Nine years ago, on my grandpa's birthday, my grandmother died suddenly and unexpectedly. It was on that day, that I believe his heart split open.
His skating sessions became shorter and shorter, until they were non-existent. His sadness was overwhelming. He could barely muster the energy to even talk about my grandmother.
Then, his memory began to fade. Eventually, he had to move into an assisted living facility, not because his physical condition had deteriorated, but because his mind began to wander. Over time, he became sluggish and needed the assistance of a wheelchair. When I visited him in March, he was lucid, but his cheeks had hollowed. He immediately recognized Lola and even held her for a few minutes, but it was obvious that he was tired.
In the last few days of his life, he went from being coherent to his systems shutting down one by one. It was as if his physical body was finally catching up to his mental state of mind. As if his broken heart had expanded so much that he could no longer breath. In an instant, he was gone.
Maybe, if heaven does truly exist, then they are together once again.
