The year I turned 12, twice

My grandfather and I shared a birthday. Well not exactly, our birthdays were in fact two days apart. Mine the 10th, his was the 12th. We usually split the difference and celebrated both our birthdays on the 11th. Now for those who know me well, know that my grandfather was a huge influence in my life. I got a lot of my charm and charisma from him, as well as a nice full head of hair. He was the kind of guy that could go into a bar a stranger and leave knowing everyone’s life story. Generous to a fault, he was raised poor, married young, worked union all his days and always had an extra beer in the fridge in case a friend stopped by.

I always spent a good portion of my summers with him.

He tried to teach me all the important stuff grandfathers are supposed to teach, fishing, hunting, and how to fix cars. My brother, being my senior by eight years, got those lessons when the old man was in his prime. By the time I came along he was, well he was a bit worn down by too many years of hard drinking and hard living. Now don’t let the snow on the roof fool you, there was still a warm fire burning in his hearth.

The thing I remember most about him was playing cards. We would play rummy for hours on those hot summer days. The two of us sitting there at the chipped linoleum kitchen table, cards in hand. I with my Shasta soda and he with his ever present can of beer. The constant shuffle of cards and banter as the old man and I traded cards and comments. Over the course of the game, as he finished one can, he would instruct me to go fetch him another from the old fridge that sat on the back porch. As the day wore on, the beers would begin to take their toll and I would eventually begin to win. That is of course until he, after making sure the cost was clear of prying eyes, broke out the “special” deck. You know the one, where every card featured a different nude woman sprawled out in all her lovely 70’s glory. I would sit, wide eyed, and stare at the waxy cards in my hand, no longer able to count the runs or match suits; he would chuckle and lay down a winning hand with a smile and say, “Rummy, dummy”

When I was 12, we did not make our annual summer trek to see him. The years of hard living finally caught up with him. It was June when the doctors told him, the pain in his side was something bad. Something terrible in fact, a cancerous growth in his liver had spread and taken root like English ivy. His days were numbered. With his usual bravado he announced, “I’m going to see 70 gawd damnit.” He was 69 when they told him, his birthday a mere 3 months away.

The last time I saw him was on August 9th, three days to go before his 70th birthday. I remember being lead into the ICU and looking down at a pale, thin grey man. This was not the great bear of a man I remembered. This, this was shell, a poor replica of someone I once knew. No longer larger than life, he lay there. The morphine drip kept his pain at bay as he slept those final days. We were told that if we wanted to say any last words to him, now was the time. He could hear us, but to not expect much in response. The morphine’s grip was too great.

My mother gently pushed me forward, to the edge of the bed and then slipped out of the room. This was my first experience with the death of a loved one. I remember standing there, clutching the bed’s rail in tears trying to make sense of what was happening. Trying to understand why he was being taken away from me. I wept.

“Why are you crying?” came a voice from the bed. It was his voice. Not the hoarse, reed thin voice of an ill man, but the clear tone of the cantankerous old man I loved. He laid there, his eyes a dull steel grey, and looked at me.
“Boy… I’m already dead…don’t cry for me…go…live” and closed his eyes.

The doctors pronounced him dead the next morning. The great bear of a man had roared his last.

“It is a pity,” they all would say at his wake, “he wanted to see his 70th birthday. He almost made it…”

There were no birthday presents that year for the Monk, rather it was my turn to give the present. Yes, in my eyes he did make it to see his seventieth year, I gave him my birthday.

Now you might think this story a sad one. Lord knows that as I type this tale, the waves of sorrow slam into my chest like fists, 22 years later and I still miss him. However as I sit here in tears I know that this is not a sad tale. Rather this is what drives me. His last words were not words of regret, they were a command. Like the great comission given by jesus to his disciples to go out and spread the word. His words have been burned into my very character.

Anyone who knows me knows this. During the month of August I am overbooked. My already busy life is pushed to the limit as I attempt to do more and more. My days are filled with friends, lovers, adventures, and yes a few silent tearful moments as I try to do just what the old man said.

Go…live