The Sunday Memory Drawer - To Grandpa On His Birthday

Today would be my grandfather's birthday.  Well, I guess it still is, although he died decades ago.  It still is the anniversary of your birth whether you're here or not.

The above photo is one of the rare ones I have of my dad's father.   Seated with my grandmother at some family gathering during the five years where my father was a photography nut.  Trust me, there aren't many snapshots of Grandpa.  To that point, he is the relative I can least conjure up an image of in my mind.

That's weird, since we lived in the same house with them.  My grandparents lived downstairs.   My folks and I lived upstairs.  Despite this close proximity, my memories of my grandfather are not many.  I didn't have him long.  I was only twelve when he died. 

Like his birthday, I cannot forget the date my grandfather died.  March 23.  That's tomorrow.  It's easy to remember because it was one day after his birthday.  Symmetry like that is not hard to ignore.  A few years back, I recall from his obituary that TV host Mike Douglas actually died on his birthday.  Well, that certainly makes for clean record keeping in Heaven's central office.  Grandpa missed that distinction by 24 hours.

All the elders in my family are gone.  

My parents, as well as my aunts and uncles, all got wiped out over a ten year period.  Some people remember the date their relatives die.  Truth be told, I'd actually have to look up the exact day that my parents and my grandmother passed away.  It's not worth remembering.  When I want to conjure up a calendar point to recall the good times, I much prefer to do that on their birth dates which are forever etched in my mind.

But, because of Grandpa's astute scheduling, the one really lasting memory I have of him is the day he died.

In reality, though, I really don't know much about the man beyond what I was told by my grandmother. Or what I remember from my very wee years.

From what I was told, Grandpa had a variety of jobs over the years. I did see a picture of him standing behind a bar with an apron on, so I assume he was a bartender at one point. There was some other talk about him driving a delivery truck. But, the job I know he had the longest was for a milk company. Borden's or "Bordink's" as my grandmother called it. What he did there was a mystery, except, at least, he had achieved an upgrade in the healthy aspects of the beverages he was involved with.

But, as far back as I can remember, he was already retired. Sitting in that big easy chair in the living room and yelling at the wrestlers on TV. If the match got particularly nasty, he would move closer to the edge of the cushion, as if his next move was to vault into the ring himself. If it was really intense, the instructions yelled at the set by both Grandpa and Grandma were in German, so I'd be lost. At the foot of his easy chair was always a glass bottle of Kruger Beer. My grandfather actually had beer delivered to the home every Wednesday morning. Tuffy, our beagle, would hear the truck's squeaky wheels from blocks away and her incessant barking always heralded the "beerman's" arrival.

On Sunday afternoons, I can always remember Grandpa sitting at the kitchen table, reading the Daily News. I'd sit alongside him, which was always the signal for him to go into Fiorello LaGuardia mode. Even though I could read at a very early age, my grandfather liked to read the funnies to me.

"So, Moon Mullins sits down on the couch and says to Kayo..."

I have no clue why Grandpa liked to do this with me, but it happened like clockwork every Sunday.

There are other snapshots.

Grandpa's lunch often consisted of a slice or two of head cheese in a plate covered by vinegar. Head cheese is the cold cut that is made up of all the parts of a pig most people don't eat. The whole meal looked gross to me.
"Wanna try some?"

I'd run away in horror.

My grandparents would eat their supper early. Usually around 4:30PM. Which meant that, from 3:30PM to about 4:15PM every day, Grandpa was missing in action. That was his time to walk two blocks and hoist a few brews at what my grandmother referred to as "the beer garden." He never came home drunk. It was simply his daily cocktail hour.

I do recall, however, one night where Grandpa was completely snockered. There was a community place on Stevens Avenue in Mount Vernon called the Turn Hall and they frequently featured Saturday night dances for any Germans interested. My family and all its tentacles always showed up. And, for some inexplicable reason, I got carted along at the age of 5. They'd sit me down at a table with a Coke and my favorite Colorforms set while the immediate world would commence to polka. While I got bored, Grandpa got pickled.

It was a rainy night and we all piled into my dad's car for the trip home. I was in the back seat, seating beside Grandma and on my grandfather's lap. Soaked to the gills, he used the moment to get very amorous. With me.

Kissing me all over my face, Grandpa kept announcing over and over. "I love you, I love you so much, I love you, I love you so much."

It was mere minutes before Grandma had endured enough. There was an ice cold stare.

"If you don't stop that, I'd gonna pop you one with this goddamn umbrella."

Who knows what happened behind their closed bedroom door that night.

When I was really young, my father worked days. So, any transport that my mom and I needed during the daytime hours was provided by Grandpa and his green Buick sedan. On my very first day in the first grade, my school was closed at noon because of an impending hurricane which was going to hit New York dead on. Grandpa picked me up outside for the five block ride home. He never ever showed much emotion. But, looking out the window at a raging wind and blinding rain, he appeared a little vulnerable. Almost scared.

"Oh, my God, this is going to be a hurricane."

During the summer months, the Grandpa transport extended to Orchard Beach where he would drop us off and pick us up after a day at the "Bronx Riviera." On one ride home, there were two other passengers with us. One of my mother's friends and her kid. Well, anyway, mucho chatter had ensued. And, for some reason, Grandpa seemed to be a little unsure about the way home. And then he ran a stop sign. And whacked a car coming the other direction.

I got knocked onto the floor of the back seat, but everybody was otherwise okay. Surprisingly, there was no damage to our car. And a medium-sized dent on the car we hit. But, the real trauma was etched on Grandpa's face. He was crestfallen. He had never been involved in an accident before. His demeanor showed the result of his epiphany. With his reflexes slowing down, he was encountering the inevitable.

His driving days were over.

As my family often did, we went into lockdown mode. Grandpa whispered to me.

"Don't tell your grandmother."

Check.

My mother whispered to me.

"Don't tell your father."

Check again.

Somehow, this was going to be a little secret between my mother and my grandfather. And me. But, there was an obvious leak because I soon noticed that my father would do all the driving whenever my grandparents needed to go someplace. To the supermarket every Thursday. To the Bronx on the first Tuesday of every month when my grandmother saw her doctor and then they shopped for Kosher dill pickles at some neighborhood they called "Jew Town." More importantly, that accident was never discussed ever again.

The years and more were closing in on Grandpa.

That fall, he came down with pnuemonia and pleuresy, which had him bedridden at home for about a month. He really was never the same after that. Breathes became shorter. Walks to the beer garden became extinct. And he even stopped smoking his beloved pipe.

By the following March, the days were dwindling down to a precious few. On the day Grandpa would pass away, I would conveniently be home from school. I had brokered an afternoon home sick. Partly because of a sore throat. Mostly because I wanted to listen to a Met spring exhibition game on the radio. My mom had walked around the corner to the grocery store. Sequestered in my room on the bed with my transistor radio, I suddenly heard my grandmother wail from downstairs.

"Lenny, quick. Go run and get your mother. I think something happened to Grandpa!"

I scooted quickly out of the house like Lassie when Timmy fell down the well. My mother dropped all her groceries in the store and told me to come along. I told her I would stay there. It was no time to argue. She ran out.

Within five minutes, amidst the cans of Krasdale vegetables, I could hear the faint but scary sound of sirens. Those noises have bothered me to this date. But, the only thing worse than hearing those piercing mechanical cries is knowing that they are headed to your house.

Eventually, I headed home and kept myself busy. Upstairs away from the activity. Because of all the strangers in the house, I grabbed Tuffy and hid in the bathroom. I don't think I came out for an hour.

Grandpa was gone. I later heard the details. His labored exhales had caught the dog's attention as she sat at his feet. My grandmother noticed this.

"Pop, Tuffy is listening to you breathe."

He apparently leaned forward to look at my dog, smiled, and then leaned back to die. In his favorite easy chair.

When I mustered enough courage to exit the bathroom and go downstairs, our immediate family was already starting to gather.   My father was summoned from my work.   Grandma was sitting in her bedroom, eyes glistening from tears.   Grandpa was still in his easy chair, covered by a white sheet.  A visiting relative walked into the living room and lifted up the sheet to look.

"He looks just like he's taking a nap.  Wanna see?"

Er, no.  My phobia of looking at dead relatives had started a few years back.   I was going to have to get through this one, too, as my family was one that liked the three-day wakes of public viewing.  

My stomach was turning in knots.  There would be all this drama.  And, oddly enough, our household of five had just been diminished by 20%,  I was 12 but still didn't know how to process finality just yet.

I wandered outside and went "up the block" to see what friends were around.  Most of them had come home from parochial school to see the paramedics parked outside my house and were wondering what happened.   I did a mini-press conference for them.  What's tougher than a kid trying to understand the immediate passing of a loved one?  His young friends trying to offer words of sympathy for an event that not many of them had even dealt with yet?  As I fumbled with words, so did they.

My best friend from childhood, Leo, was there was some baseball cards in his hand.  He looked through them.

"Here's a Met.  I've got doubles."

It was this journeyman outfielder Al Luplow.  This was the very card.  And I guess the first condolence gift I would ever receive.

An odd connection for sure.  But, to this day, I can't think of the day my grandfather died without thinking of Al Luplow.

Sometimes, it's astounding how things connect in this strange world of yours and mine.

Happy birthday, Grandpa.  The memories are few, but they are still majestic in scope.

Dinner last night:  Chicken with proscuitto and mozzarella at Via Veneto 26.