For Grandpa

My wonderful, kind, and heroic Grandpa, Stephen John Richards, passed away the Sunday before last. He was a beautiful man and left his grandchildren with many lovely memories. Below is merely a few of them, as told by by my brother Stevie, his name sake, and me.

Cyndi:
It's funny, the things one remembers. For me, it's the sheets on the bed I occupied whenever we were lucky enough to be visiting our Grandpa and Grandma in Florida. It always seemed to be summertime on those occasions, the weather hot and humid enough that sheets were sufficient for night time cover. These were white and covered with pill-balls, but bedecked by a repeating pattern of grinning tabby cats wearing red high top sneakers, laces in neatly looped bows. It seemed lighter at night than I was used to, warmer as well, and I sometimes found it hard to fall asleep. Instead I would count the tabby cats, thinking of Grandpa telling me how Aunt Kass would draw cats riding horses. These sheets had been hers once, when she was young enough to live at home. I found it oddly thrilling sleeping in her white four poster bed.

On those sweltering summer days, we spent many happy hours at the pool next door, diving for rings, exploring the bottom of the pool through foggy goggled eyes. On one occasion, I had a pressing need to go to the bathroom, so Grandpa walked me back over to his house early, assuring me my brothers and Dad would be close behind.

The smells were different in Grandpa's house, as was the texture of the carpet in the room my brothers and I shared. My feet were more sensitive after coming from the pool and it reminded me vaguely of stepping on yarny little worms. I hung my bathing suit and goggles on the white bed post, hearing a faint tapping on the carpet as the dripping water saturated a spot on the carpet below. After changing back into the customary shorts and tank top I wandered out into kitchen where Grandma stood at the stove, stirring a pot pf Beanie Weenies, to which she added extra hot dogs. Grandpa, in a striped shirt, Bermuda shorts, and striped tube socks pulled up to his calves, sat at the table reading the paper. He looked up and smiled as I came in, removing his glasses, reaching for the can of Hi-C still chilly from the fridge, and pouring some into the sparkling yellow cup for me.

"Did you get all the water out of those ear pans Cinderbug?" He asked. I shook my head "no" and heard the water slosh.

"Well make sure you sleep on that side tonight, and it will come out while you sleep." It had, of course, in a warm trickle onto one of the red sneakers of the cat on the pillow case, a larger version of his clones that adorned my sheets. The same pillow which, every time I arrived for a visit, inevitably held a Barbie or new stuffed animal for me.

"Do you have any paper?" I asked him, wiping the Hi-C from my lip. "I want to draw you a picture." Grandma crossed the beige and brown linoleum and pushed a yellow pad and pen over to me.

"Here you go," she said, "What are you going to draw?"

"I'll show you," I said setting to work. I gripped the pen, scratching along the paper, until a crooked pig emerged. On his head I drew two attenuated little antennae with bulbous ends.

"Ooh, what are those? Those don't look like any pigs I've ever seen," Grandpa said, humoring me.

"They're Pigaliens!" I announced, proud as punch.

"My! Pigaliens! Have you ever seen a Pigalien Marge?" He asked.

Grandma glanced at the wide array of ceramic pigs adorning her kitchen window sill. "Nope, no pigaliens there." She remarked.

"Grandpaa!" I droned, dramatically, " they're not real!"

"Well how do you know?" He asked, his face the picture of innocence. I shrugged. I guess I didn't.

"You better sign and date this." Grandpa remarked.

"Why?" I asked.

"Well when you are a famous artist someday, this will be worth lots of money." He explained.

"But I'm not going to be a famous artist. I'm going to be a teacher." I replied.

"Maybe so," Grandma agreed. "But you better sign and date it, just in case." I did so with great importance, carefully lettering Cindy Lynn Richards in my labored child's script, then handed it over to Grandma, who placed it on the fridge, securing it with a pig magnet. She returned to the stove to stir lunch as the front door opened and closed, announcing my brothers and dad returning from the pool. They shuffled wetly to our shared room to change. Grandpa rose and walked to the cabinet, returning with a can of macaroons. He glanced at Grandma, her back was to us, and slid a macaroon across the table. He winked at me and popped one in his mouth, then quietly returned the tin to the cupboard.

I stealthily palmed the macaroon and took small bites every time Grandma's back was turned, finishing after several moments. I felt something deeply significant had transpired. Twenty years later, I still do.

The sum total of these experiences, after all is said and done, cannot be adequately measured by the passing of time, nor in beginnings or ends. Instead, they are counted in ripples and in folds, in the aligning of like hearts with shared tendency, in continuance of traditions, in the persistence of memories.

The other day, I sat at my kitchen table making a water color with Matty.

"Remember to sign and date it," I said when we finished.

"Why do you always say that?" He asked in his innocent way. He was right of course, I always did.

"Because some day, when you are a famous artist, this will be worth lots of money."

"But I'm not going the be a famous artist." He insisted.

"You never know." I replied. "You better sign it just in case." He did, of course, with great importance.

Stevie:
The other day I asked Mom to get me a grapefruit at the grocery store, not having had one for many years. I was surprised to see how muscle memory took over. I cut the large fruit in half , and with a spoon stumbled along the edges until the grapefruit was loose. I took the first bite and instantly i was transported back to Grandma and Grandpas kitchen. I could smell coffee, I could see Grandpa with his big glasses on reading the newspaper. I had looked up from my memory and realized that i was finished with the grapefruit. I began to clean up....what was i doing? I forgot the most important part, i took a glass from the cupboard and like grandpa squeezed the juice into the glass careful to remove the seeds. i took a long drink from it and it just made the memory all the more complete. Its true though, the quaint memories that your brain chooses to remember over others. I remember the blow up snake in the fruit tree in the back yard, i remember a bag of neon space men the size of army men, tucked into the tv one visit. I remember playing to vigorously with a sword laden toy once, and the sword went into someones drink. above all though i remember swimming. the tight floaties restricting my movement, grandpa slicing through the water using his hand to squirt water at us all, telling us it was a water skeeter. and then at the end of the days swimming activities, grandpa would help me out of the pool, he'd towel off my back and then wrap the towel around me. He'd stand next to me with his towel wrapped the same, and then he'd bend at his knees and press the towel along his shorts the water would wring out, he showed me how to do it and there wed stand side by side knees bent bouncing up and down on our feet getting the water out of our shorts. i remember how good the Hungry Howies pizza tasted, and how i've never found pizza that tasted anything like it. taking rides in the big car to see the eagles high in the mossy trees. i was so young but those memories are the ones i remember the clearest. I know regret serves no purpose, but i do have regrets, i regret not getting to know my grandfather . I want him to know, that if i do anything in this life, i want to be the man he was, the magic in his smile , the cute nick names he would use, the zest for life he had. I never got to tell him how much these things meant to me how precious it all was.

We love you Grandpa. You will be missed.