My Grandpa

I've been thinking lately about the past, and thinking about what I'm going to write in the book I'm writing about my life. I was going to write about high school, but that's a long and complicated story, so I'll save it for another time. Then I thought about people that have been in my life, and most of those stories are long and complicated too, and some of them read my blog, so getting the story "just right" would take a while. But my grandpa is dying, and I've been thinking about him lately, so I figured that might be a good place to start.

It's actually kind of interesting that I've been thinking about my grandpa so much, because I'm not actually that close to him, even though he's the only grandpa I've ever known. Grandpa Seaton died when I was about 3, and the only memories I have of him is a picture in my mind from when he visited us in Houston, and a memory of his burial, where I in my 3 year old mind couldn't understand how Grandpa could fit underneath the tarp that was only about 3 inches off the ground. But this Grandpa, Grandpa Brownell has always been around.

When I was little, we lived in Houston, and we'd fly back to visit Syracuse, where both my parents grew up, once or twice a year usually in the summer and sometimes at Thanksgiving or maybe Christmas. I always thought that was fun, because we'd see real snow, and get to make snowmen and snow angels (a novelty for us Texans!) I remember my grandparents meeting us at the gate, and riding home in their old Buicks or Oldsmobiles with the cushy seats. It's kind of strange, whenever I think of Grandpa Brownell, I don't usually think of him, I think of things associated with him, like his cars or the old falling down house they used to live in on Kirkville Road with the scary basement and huge vent in the middle of the hallway floor, or the time he took us down to the fire hall to see the fire engines and where my mom went to kindergarten. For some reason, I've always been hesitant to talk to these grandparents very much, maybe because I never knew what to say or what to ask when my parents were sitting in the same room, and they usually monopolized the conversation.

Most of my memories of my grandfather though are actually from the last 12 years or so, after he had his stroke and was confined to a wheelchair or his recliner. Somehow he became a little more approachable then. Maybe it's because he no longer towered over me (he's 6' plus or minus an inch or two) or because he had more time to sit and chat or I grew out of my shyness, or whatever. I remember being sad to see my grandpa in a wheelchair, but it's never seemed like a disability to me. It just became a little harder to play Scrabble or dominos with only one hand, but he did it well enough. I always knew he was in the army and the Korean War, but when I came to college in PA and actually knew where Fort Indiantown Gap was, it made it a little more interesting to me. He's had a hard life - he lost his only son during an operation for brain cancer when my uncle Gary was only 10. I don't think he's quite ever gotten over that, even though it's been 40+ years. But Grandpa has always been the sensitive one - he'd cry without fail everytime we left to go back to Houston on the plane, or everytime we get in the car to drive home. I never really knew any other grown man that would cry that openly, and it always made me want to cry, even just now thinking of it. I guess he knew how quickly life can disappear, or how each goodbye might be the last.

Even though we've been through this before (we thought it was the end my junior year in college and made a trip up to NY) I think this time it really is the end of the road for Grandpa. I think one of the things that makes me saddest is for my grandma, who will be married to him 52 years on Monday, and my mom. After all, even though he was just my grandpa who I didn't know very well, he was her dad. He was the one who yelled at her for going 70 miles an hour down a hill during the midst of the gas crisis in the 70's (she claims she couldn't help it, she was going downhill), and who taught her to be so good at Scrabble. He was the one who was a volunteer firefighter, driving the truck since he couldn't walk well enough to actually go in and put out the fires. I think that was the thing that made me proudest of him ever since I was little - the fact that he was a firefighter, and eventually won an award for his long years of service (30 or more?). But now all that is over, and we're just waiting for the end. Sneaks up on you kinda fast.