Tag Archives: grandpa

Oh, I didn’t tell you about Grandpa?

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So, grandma ended up needing the pacemaker. I just got off the phone with her, she’s in good spirits. I haven’t spoken to her, because I’ve been super-super sick.  Of course, after recovering from heart surgery, all she wants to know is about how I’m feeling. because she’s a grandma. And she asks about Frank, and starts razzing me about how I’m not married yet.  “Tell him to shit or get off the pot, mamela. That’s what I did with grandpa.” I’ve heard this story before, and it cracks me up.  She mentioned grandpa finally anted up a charm bracelet in October, and asked her when she wanted to get married. They got married in December. I remarked how quickly she moved, and she said “Well, he told me we could either go on a honeymoon, or pay off the cops.”

…

What?

She told me how my grandpa was a trucker (this I knew) and how he worked in the garment district, and something about there not being enough street parking, so he had to pay off the cops in order to get a good spot for his truck. Okay, not exactly life of crime stuff.  I teased her about my grandfather, the underworld kingpin.

“Well, you know your grandfather worked for the Mafia for 4-5 years, right?”

…

Seriously? Grandma, at what point do you think we discussed Grandpa being a gangster?

She told me the story. Apparently, someone recommended Grandpa to a certain crime family that is well-known, but because I am paranoid, I won’t mention their name. He was exactly what they would have wanted. A good, clean-cut, soft-spoken guy who didn’t even tolerate cursing. Apparently, he worked for them for about 5 years, until he retired. That’s right, this wasn’t like a “young buck” situation. My grandpa was in his 60s, and I was already born!

The whole thing apparently freaked him out. He said that he once saw someone get some sort of Italian kiss on both cheeks, and grandpa ran out. He was terrified of what would come next.

I asked Grandma how he “got out.” I mean, what the hell do I know? Apparently, one can retire from being a Mafia trucker. And of course, the mobsters loved my grandpa. In fact, they throw him a “testimonial goodbye dinner” upstairs at some bakery in Brooklyn.

Grandma attended, of course. She tells me about her outfit – she work all black, with black stockings. She said if anything went wrong, she wanted to be dressed for her funeral. We are a prepared family.  She wouldn’t stop describing the women. “One more beautiful than the next, with thick mink coats and dressed to the nines. And here I was, wearing my little carat and a half.”

Grandma was freaked out (“don’t even ask me what I ate!”) because she says normally only two brothers went to any event at a time. She says that all three brothers of this family attended Grandpa’s dinner (what can I say? We’re a likable family!) and she was terrified that all three of them meant there would be a massacre. She said her seat was by the stairway, and the entire dinner all she could think about was people running up the stairs with Tommy guns. Nevermind that this was the 80′s. Grandpa gave a speech, and all three brothers toasted my grandfather.

So, she tells me this whole story. I ask what else she “forgot” to tell me and she says she’ll think about it. So far, in the past month, I’ve found out my grandpa was both some sort of amazing WWII  sharpshooter (more on that later), that we’re pretty sure there’s a secret family of his in Paris, and that he was a trucker for the mob.  Of course.

Remembering Grandpa

I’ve written this post a thousand times in my head. On the plane, in the airport, at the funeral and on the subway. And even still, I’m writing it now and I don’t know what I’m going to say. I can make it funny and tell you about the comedy of errors that befell me and my family in the hours after finding out my grandfather passed away this past Friday. Or I could tell you some heartbreakingly beautiful stories about the lessons I’ve learned from my grandparent’s 55 years of marriage.

I could probably write whole posts about how weird it felt to be sitting with my long-estranged parents in the same room together, playing Scrabble with all three of my little sisters. Or how gut-wrenching it was to hold my grandmother up while she yelled at a coffin, begging her dead husband to take care of their daughter, who we placed in the grave next to his, six years earlier. I could tell you what it’s like to look out at a group of senior citizens, open your mouth to deliver a eulogy and instead cry and snort into a microphone, causing your sister to dissolve into a fit of giggles. Except I would probably leave that out and just tell you how I proud I was of my 11 year-old sister’s much more dignified speech.

I want to tell you stories about my grandfather, and how he lived to be 90 and never lost his sense of wonder. How he always had a really bad pun and refused to say a bad word about anyone. Even when I wished he would. I want to tell you about the stories my grandmother told us about how she chased my grandfather for two years before he would settle down. And I want to burst with pride when I explain that my grandfather was a model of what it means to be a partner in marriage. I want to marvel at the beauty that my 90 year old Grandpa was an honest, hardworking man, free from the bigotry that plagued so many people of his generation.

I will do all these things. But for now, I’ll just remember my Grandpa. He was a gutteh neshumah – a good soul. I’ll miss him.

Old Men

Old men break my heart.  I don’t know how else to say it, or what other kind of intro it needs, but I was thinking about New Years, and I remember a New Year’s Eve from a long time ago, when my mom, sister and I went to a diner for dinner and there was this old guy there, alone, eating soup. It was just so sad, and I think we asked him to sit with us. Or we talked about asking him to sit with us – I don’t remember the outcome, but it’s the first instance I remember of old men destroying me.

If you are an old guy now, it means you have lived through some tough times. Most likely you either served in or had your life somehow formed by WWII. If you were an American at the time – an immigrant, or a Jewish or European immigrant probably had it even worse. But, okay – let’s say you haven’t lived through the Holocaust, and instead you lived “The American Dream.” You were part of the way we never were  – you raised your kids through the 50′s and 60′s. You were taught to be strong and silent. Your whole family relied on you. Mentally, that kind of had to be no fun. And now, you are old. Maybe your wife died. Maybe she is living, but needs constant care, or – you never really liked her in the first place,  but you are too old for the divorce that was taboo when it would have made sense. But now, you are dependant on so many other people. Maybe that wife, maybe your kids. Maybe you don’t have anyone, and have to rely on some stranger, or nursing facility.

Of course, it’s not all old guys that get to me like this – but I invent complicated and sad stories for them. Which is silly – they may be perfectly happy, but something about old men just gets to me. Old women are sad too, but I think I am so used to the idea of women’s lives being horrible that the tragedy of old age seems less tragic. We know all about the horrors of old age, because we are so frequently called on to be the caretakers. We worry about it and it never seems to shock us how awful it could be. Old men just seem so mentally unprepared to be old men.

My maternal grandpa died at the age of 62, on Christmas day, while on the tennis courts during a Florida vacation (visiting my paternal grandparents). I was pretty young when he died (maybe about 10?) and my memories of him are fleeting, but positive. From all accounts, he wasn’t a super wonderful guy. My mom thinks that had he lived, he may have left my grandma and moved down to Florida. I wonder about him. His life doesn’t seem like it was too bad, but he was a stoic guy who had a rough childhood and never enjoyed any real success. I wonder what life would have been like for him if he did live and got to kind of be free and happy.

My paternal Grandpa is about 89. He is doing awesome, for his age. He has a full head of hair, walks unassisted and while mentally he isn’t as sharp as he used to be, he still tells his trademark jokes and religiously follows the Miami Heat.  He always reminded me of Willy Loman – this salesguy who is a dreamer and schemer, but has never hit it big. As a young (really good looking!) guy, he served in WWII as a supply sergeant, and fell in love with France. From what I can tell, after the war he kind of bummed around Paris for awhile. He came home, got some sort of sales job and married my (super-hot!) grandma. So far, so good.

Well, he never became the sales superstar he hoped to be. He had a string of failed businesses and his own brother fleeced him. His wife has been an untreated chronic depressive for the past 50 years. His daughter was born with a heart condition and was sickly. She had one of the first pediatric open-heart surgeries in New York. My dad was probably a source of joy, except my dad’s mood swings have to have been hard on Grandpa. Now he lives in Florida and still dreams of a big payday but is really, really broke. His daughter died of lung cancer a few years ago, his chronically ill, wife is more depressed than ever and his relationship with his son (my dad) has disintegrated to the point of no-contact. And what kills me? Because of macular degenration and back issues, my grandma can’t really stand and cook, and my grandma says that grandpa really needs a meat and a side dish for dinner. So he stands there, in the frozen foods  aisle at Publix – picking out frozen dinners. I watch him and wonder what he is thinking – is he reviewing all the choices he made and wondering how this all happened to him?  Or, is he really just intent on figuring out if a turkey pot pie is a better choice than chicken florentine?

That kills me.

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