My Pop died last night at a nursing home north of Seattle. He had just turned 86. Up until a few months ago, he was living independently, with my grandmother, in a small apartment in a senior community. I am immensely grateful that we were able to visit Pop and Gram for two Thanksgivings, first when Andy was just two months old, and then a year later, at 14 months old. Sadly, we did not go this year.
My heart aches for my grandmother. She remained in her apartment, but went to visit Pop in nursing care for most of the day, even sneaking him into her dining room for an occasional lunch: the dining room where they had eaten their lunches and dinners together for the past several years. She took Pop there despite reprimand and despite the fact that he would sometimes pour juice into his coffee. How an 85 year old woman, barely ambulatory herself, managed to escort her mostly bed-bound husband to lunch is a remarkable feat in itself. I suppose she was insistent that their lives retain some shred of dignity.
I remember dining with Gram and Pop in the "Garden Room". To reach the entrance, we had to first walk through a passage way with a large window overlooking the skilled nursing cafeteria, where the more elderly and disabled residents would wait-- slumped in their wheelchairs, wearing oversized bibs-- for an aid to spoon pureed pears into their perpetually open mouths. Gram visibly shuddered each time we passed this sight. It seemed a cruel and needless reminder of what was inevitable. Gram expressed her hope that she and Pop would not end up there, and I think it was then that she told me: "Don't ever grow old, Barbara."
When I received the voicemail from my Dad, letting me know that his Dad had passed, I did not feel the sadness immediately. Physically, mentally and emotionally, Pop was suffering. He told Gram a few days ago: "Let's get some money and a car and get out of this place." When he had to end his life of service as a minister and teacher, when his sight began to fail him and he couldn't enjoy the pleasures of reading--and this was many years ago--that was when I began to mourn for him.
As a child, the highlights of my visits with Pop were when he'd make his signature drink for us grandchildren: gingerale and lime sherbet floats. He had an extensive wind-up toy collection, and once each visit he would wind each one of them up, so that the whole house came to life with little wheeling objects. My favorite was Santa Claus on a bicycle.
Pop had an incredible wit and sense of humor, that sometimes turned surly. When Jessica and I tried to use their old mop to clean their kitchen, we joked that it was time to buy a new one. He grew defensive and quipped that his old mop was a lot like our hair!
Pop needed to retreat often to the solitude of his study, to read and think in private. In fact, this is what I remember most about him. I have this same need, and I'm sure I get it from him. When I learned of his death, I had an overwhelming urge to be alone for awhile, to create this post for him. Some cyberspace equivalent of pen and ink, if not bricks and mortar, something to commemorate that he lived and he died.
I know he would be disappointed to hear it, but I have no idea where--or if-- he is, now. I did not inherit his faith. His passing is a reminder to me to appreciate the gift of life, to say the "I love yous", to write, read, think and be of service to others. To find the humor in situations. To get out the toys and wind them all up.
I think I will have a sherbet float and say a quiet toast to him. Maybe even a prayer.
Thank you, Pop, for your life. I will miss you.
My heart aches for my grandmother. She remained in her apartment, but went to visit Pop in nursing care for most of the day, even sneaking him into her dining room for an occasional lunch: the dining room where they had eaten their lunches and dinners together for the past several years. She took Pop there despite reprimand and despite the fact that he would sometimes pour juice into his coffee. How an 85 year old woman, barely ambulatory herself, managed to escort her mostly bed-bound husband to lunch is a remarkable feat in itself. I suppose she was insistent that their lives retain some shred of dignity.
I remember dining with Gram and Pop in the "Garden Room". To reach the entrance, we had to first walk through a passage way with a large window overlooking the skilled nursing cafeteria, where the more elderly and disabled residents would wait-- slumped in their wheelchairs, wearing oversized bibs-- for an aid to spoon pureed pears into their perpetually open mouths. Gram visibly shuddered each time we passed this sight. It seemed a cruel and needless reminder of what was inevitable. Gram expressed her hope that she and Pop would not end up there, and I think it was then that she told me: "Don't ever grow old, Barbara."
When I received the voicemail from my Dad, letting me know that his Dad had passed, I did not feel the sadness immediately. Physically, mentally and emotionally, Pop was suffering. He told Gram a few days ago: "Let's get some money and a car and get out of this place." When he had to end his life of service as a minister and teacher, when his sight began to fail him and he couldn't enjoy the pleasures of reading--and this was many years ago--that was when I began to mourn for him.
As a child, the highlights of my visits with Pop were when he'd make his signature drink for us grandchildren: gingerale and lime sherbet floats. He had an extensive wind-up toy collection, and once each visit he would wind each one of them up, so that the whole house came to life with little wheeling objects. My favorite was Santa Claus on a bicycle.
Pop had an incredible wit and sense of humor, that sometimes turned surly. When Jessica and I tried to use their old mop to clean their kitchen, we joked that it was time to buy a new one. He grew defensive and quipped that his old mop was a lot like our hair!
Pop needed to retreat often to the solitude of his study, to read and think in private. In fact, this is what I remember most about him. I have this same need, and I'm sure I get it from him. When I learned of his death, I had an overwhelming urge to be alone for awhile, to create this post for him. Some cyberspace equivalent of pen and ink, if not bricks and mortar, something to commemorate that he lived and he died.
I know he would be disappointed to hear it, but I have no idea where--or if-- he is, now. I did not inherit his faith. His passing is a reminder to me to appreciate the gift of life, to say the "I love yous", to write, read, think and be of service to others. To find the humor in situations. To get out the toys and wind them all up.
I think I will have a sherbet float and say a quiet toast to him. Maybe even a prayer.
Thank you, Pop, for your life. I will miss you.
Dec. 19, 1920-Jan. 1, 2007
5 comments:
You wrote such a nice eulogy for your grandfather. He was lucky to have you for a grandchild. Many of the things you mentioned about his character were also things I remember. He would grin at you and you never knew what to expect next. He was great at lightening the moment.
My name is Anita Griesenauer, sister to Doug and our mother was Neysa sister to your grandfather.
Thanks for reading and for the comment. I enjoyed looking at the family photographs when we visited for the funeral. What a legacy Marvin and Cora left, through their children & their children. The older I get the more I appreciate my heritage.
I sure missed Pop's ability to lighten the moment, as you said.
I live in Newberg, Oregon, where I am publisher of a monthly newspaper serving the evangelical Christian community in the Portland metro area. But WAAAAY back in the late 1970s, I was editor of the weekly newspaper in Anacortes, where your grandfather served several years as minister at the Church of Christ.
I was surprised to read your postings and find out that your grandfather had died just a few weeks ago. Isn't it funny -- I had not thought about Lynnton Elwell for a long time-- but for some reason yesterday I got curious as to what had happened with him, so I did a Google search with his name and came up with your site.
Lynnton was a very friendly man and a dedicated minister of the Gospel. I attended Anacortes Church of Christ for several years and enjoyed getting to know him. I remember, though, that he missed living down here in Oregon and thus I wasn't surprised when he took a ministerial position in -- was it Roseburg? I think it was. I seem to remember stopping in on one of my travels and saying a quick hello.
Thank you for your honesty in your posting, where you say you have not yet personally accepted your grandfather's faith in Christ. My prayer for you -- and I'm sure it was his as a loving grandpa -- is that God will reveal Himself to you in a very real way.
John Fortmeyer
jfortmeyer@cnnw.com
Post a Comment