There is a yahrzeit candle burning on the stove in the kitchen, the second to occupy that space during the past two days.
The first was for my maternal grandfather and the second for my own father. It is 13 years for grandpa and six years since they respectively left.
I have been thinking about how Dad used to take me to the cemetery in in between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur to visit my grandmother.
Might have been six or seven the first time we went together and I am sorry to say I can’t remember the last time though it doesn’t really matter.
What strikes me now is my grandmother died at 56, a year older than I am now. What strikes me now is how young my father was when his mother died and how I told him cemeteries were boring.
I was young enough not to be chastised for it. It sticks out a bit because as I have written before sometimes my father could have a very hard edge, but he could also be very soft.
When I think about some of our experiences and look back upon things I know he went through I have a different perspective on some of it. This should not be a shock to anyone who has had the opportunity to look at their childhood through adult eyes.
Go See Our Mother
I can hear my father telling me about his time at the hospital after grandma died. I can hear him say “Grandpa told your uncle and I we could go see our mother.”
We had the discussion when I spoke with him about my grandfather. Mom and Dad had gone away for a short vacation.
Part of what jumps out at me is he had asked me for my opinion about whether he should go because my grandfather wasn’t doing well.
“You should go. You guys need some time away, I’ll look after grandpa. You know he could die today or live another five years, no one knows.”
He agreed with me, we were very plain with each other about these things.
And then my grandfather died while they were gone and I had to call and tell him to come home.
I had gotten the call from my grandfather’s caretaker that grandpa had taken ill and been rushed to the hospital.
That wasn’t exactly what happened or so the doc at the hospital had told me. “You grandfather was probably dead before he hit the floor.”
I am not sure if those are the precise words he used but it is how I remember them. The doc apologized and led me back to see grandpa.
He walked out of the room and I wondered why they hadn’t extubated him. Grandpa and I had a conversation and I apologized for not holding his hand the whole time.
“Grandpa, your hand is cold. It is not how I want to remember you.”
I got to the hospice in time to still some warmth in my father’s body but I made sure to let go before the temperature change.
It irks me a bit to say I can’t remember whether my father said he went back to see his mother. I want to say he told me he decided not to but I am not positive.
Dad was all of 29 and my uncle was 28 but I don’t know if he went back either. It is not important, it doesn’t describe their character or define them.
So many memories come to mind with all this, standing near my grandfather’s grave while his little brother, my Uncle George cried on my shoulder.
He was 88 and in some ways had a strained relationship with the family. I wonder about that sometimes because he was one of my two gay uncles, at least those I know who were for certain.
We never cared about that nor did my grandparents. My understanding was his parents and other siblings were ok with it too but I wonder what sort of strain it must have been to have been a gay man during a time when it clearly wasn’t accepted.
It is hard to say, my father’s younger brother, my aforementioned uncle was gay too but I never saw any strain there. Never saw it impact how he went about his life and I saw him many times, visited him in his place in San Francisco.
Maybe it was a case of the impact of different times and places or maybe it is just personalities. We’re all different and we all handle stress differently.
I’d be very curious to discuss it but Uncle George died in 2009 and Uncle Mark in 1994. There is nothing but echoes to chase after.
Would They Recognize Me Now?
So much has happened during the days between when my grandfathers and all of the other aforementioned Wilner men walked the earth I sometimes wonder if they would recognize me now.
It is 30 years since Uncle Mark died so I expect in some ways he might be the most shocked or surprised because 25 year-old Josh didn’t look like this.
But then again he probably wouldn’t be that surprised because age and responsibilities change us whether we want them to or not.
I expect my father and grandfathers wouldn’t see much, might comment on their being a few physical things but more likely they’d say I understand certain things better than before.
We’d commune in a way fathers do and this I know because we had done it before. However some of it might be different because I have gone so much further down the path than when they died.
I have reached a point where the two major things I haven’t experienced yet are becoming a father-in-law and grandfather.
Both of my grandfathers told me together and on separate occasions that becoming a great-grandfather was delightful and that part of it came from watching me experience fatherhood.
Dad told me being a grandpa was so much fun he would skipped being dad just to do it.
Last Couple of Thoughts
I have written before about how when my uncle was dying my father and grandfather drove from L.A. to San Francisco to go see him.
Dad wouldn’t let me go because he said it was an immediate family thing and that he didn’t grandpa to hide his feelings from me or try to protect me in any way.
I pushed back and said it was ridiculous.
“If you think my father won’t try and protect you than you don’t know him.”
I said I was almost 25 and I didn’t need protection.
“Grandpa won’t care how old you are.”
But looking back I suspect that what my father didn’t say or couldn’t say was he wanted time not to be Dad but to be a son and an older brother.
So today I am glad I didn’t go, but that is 30 years of life experience talking and 24 years of being a parent.
I am not who I once was and so very much who I am and have always been. Life is one hell of an experience, but only if you know how to open your eyes for it.
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