Family.
Some things about living very far away from family are hard.
My grandpa died yesterday. It has been decided that trying to get back to Cleveland at this point would be needlessly expensive and a long, long trip. So I will have to pay my respects here.
I had a lot of respect for the man. He was Papa Lew to some, Uncle Lew to others, but to me, he was always Papa. He had always been, in my experience as a granddaughter, a very gentle man. Humble, modest, fairly quiet. He told my brother and me amazing stories when we were children. We would sit quietly by his side as he spun funny little tales about Manglewirtz, Ishkabibble, Little Nudnick, and OshKoshBgosh. Stories about Alphabet Soup, the Bicycle, and The Big Snowstorm. They were different every time. I can't remember the details anymore, but I had the foresight a few years ago to get him to record them on a cassette. I fully intended at the time to write them down, illustrate them, and maybe even publish. Tho the tape is back in Seattle, I fully intend to still do it someday. These stories meant a lot to me. That is what grandparents shoud be: the storytellers, the keepers of oral tradition in a family.
He taught me a lot in my early life, when he called me Sandi-Dandy. He taught me my first French (s'il vous plait), learned from when he was stationed in France during WWII, I believe. He never talked about the war, or Russia, which he left when he was too young to retain any memories of it. But I always thought it made him fascinating, and a little mysterious.
The biggest thing he taught me, and I still have a vivid memory of it (which is unusual for me), was to draw. I can remember how he taught me how to hold the pencil and apply the right pressure to shade the petals of a flower. He gave me this gift before he even became a painter himself, after his wife, my Nana, died. I thought that was amazing: for someone to pick up a difficult skill like oil painting so late in life. He was good (tho never admitted any talent), and very prolific. He was adventurous with it, trying the styles of Matisse and Chagall as well as more realistic styles. Our house was filled with his work. Later, he picked up sculpture, also. (I never was able to anything like that. But maybe when I'm old...). This gift is something that has stayed with me, giving me pleasure my whole life.
The man had a very long, full life. He was 94, for cryin' out loud. He was ready to go. He even chose it, after he saw that his body was truly failing him at last. He was done with bouncing back from each health problem a little worse than before. It was just prolonging the inevitable, and he was tired of it. There were few pleasures left as his eyes went and his fingers shook and he couldn't paint or even read much anymore (I have the voracious-reader gene from him, thru my dad, also). So he said 'enough,' and was gone two days later. But he lived long enough to see his great-grandchildren, and that's cool. I'm glad I got to show him my paintings, too, and I hope he knew that they were due to his influence.
It was hard to see him so frail in his last year, but I'm glad I got to see him before we moved here. I knew when I left him that I probably wouldn't see him again. Part of me wishes I had said a better, more 'meaningful' goodbye, but then I think that it was better to be casual, like 'see ya next time.' He wasn't one to make a big deal out of anything.
I'm sad, but I think it has more to do with the constant rain. Seattle's misty crap has nothing on Japan's typhoon season.
Bye, Papa.
My grandpa died yesterday. It has been decided that trying to get back to Cleveland at this point would be needlessly expensive and a long, long trip. So I will have to pay my respects here.
I had a lot of respect for the man. He was Papa Lew to some, Uncle Lew to others, but to me, he was always Papa. He had always been, in my experience as a granddaughter, a very gentle man. Humble, modest, fairly quiet. He told my brother and me amazing stories when we were children. We would sit quietly by his side as he spun funny little tales about Manglewirtz, Ishkabibble, Little Nudnick, and OshKoshBgosh. Stories about Alphabet Soup, the Bicycle, and The Big Snowstorm. They were different every time. I can't remember the details anymore, but I had the foresight a few years ago to get him to record them on a cassette. I fully intended at the time to write them down, illustrate them, and maybe even publish. Tho the tape is back in Seattle, I fully intend to still do it someday. These stories meant a lot to me. That is what grandparents shoud be: the storytellers, the keepers of oral tradition in a family.
He taught me a lot in my early life, when he called me Sandi-Dandy. He taught me my first French (s'il vous plait), learned from when he was stationed in France during WWII, I believe. He never talked about the war, or Russia, which he left when he was too young to retain any memories of it. But I always thought it made him fascinating, and a little mysterious.
The biggest thing he taught me, and I still have a vivid memory of it (which is unusual for me), was to draw. I can remember how he taught me how to hold the pencil and apply the right pressure to shade the petals of a flower. He gave me this gift before he even became a painter himself, after his wife, my Nana, died. I thought that was amazing: for someone to pick up a difficult skill like oil painting so late in life. He was good (tho never admitted any talent), and very prolific. He was adventurous with it, trying the styles of Matisse and Chagall as well as more realistic styles. Our house was filled with his work. Later, he picked up sculpture, also. (I never was able to anything like that. But maybe when I'm old...). This gift is something that has stayed with me, giving me pleasure my whole life.
The man had a very long, full life. He was 94, for cryin' out loud. He was ready to go. He even chose it, after he saw that his body was truly failing him at last. He was done with bouncing back from each health problem a little worse than before. It was just prolonging the inevitable, and he was tired of it. There were few pleasures left as his eyes went and his fingers shook and he couldn't paint or even read much anymore (I have the voracious-reader gene from him, thru my dad, also). So he said 'enough,' and was gone two days later. But he lived long enough to see his great-grandchildren, and that's cool. I'm glad I got to show him my paintings, too, and I hope he knew that they were due to his influence.
It was hard to see him so frail in his last year, but I'm glad I got to see him before we moved here. I knew when I left him that I probably wouldn't see him again. Part of me wishes I had said a better, more 'meaningful' goodbye, but then I think that it was better to be casual, like 'see ya next time.' He wasn't one to make a big deal out of anything.
I'm sad, but I think it has more to do with the constant rain. Seattle's misty crap has nothing on Japan's typhoon season.
Bye, Papa.
posted by Sandi at 11:55 AM
1 Comments:
Sandi- I'm sorry to hear your latest news. I have lost all my grandparents, my parents as well as several aunts, uncles and a few friends, so I know how you feel. Your "papa" was a great man and he gave you many wonderful gifts. you have my sincere condolences. -Adam
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