Grandpa

I wanted my return to blogging attempts to be about something important. Important things have happened and have continued happening in my life. However, I have been unable to pull the one particular important thing from my brain and put it into words, I have been unable to take a deep breath and finally say what needs to be said and what deserves to be said. I know this sounds all melodramatic, but I’m an emotional person, so shut up and don’t judge me.

There are people who pass in and out of your life. There are people you choose to hang on to and there are people who you are supposed to try to hang on to, due to some ill-defined genetic obligation. There are also people you choose to let go. Of all of the millions of people you encounter in your life, maybe a few you prop up on a pedestal; you admire and respect those people.

As an emotional person, per the above, I tend to put a lot of people onto pedestals. This is because it takes my big brain a little while to catch up to my idiot heart; at which point the pedestal crumbles because I discover the person atop it wasn’t worthy, as most people aren’t. We all, as is said of humans, are flawed. However, in my 35 years on earth, there has been one person who never fell, never even stumbled on the top of the pedestal I had erected for him. That person is my grandfather, Duane Weber, who passed away this past August. He is the subject of my “important” blog post. I want to write this for him and for me, but it really is for anyone who lost their hero.

I don’t think humans are inherently good or evil. Each one of us moves up and down that spectrum in life, but not Grandpa. He was an inherently good person. That sounds generic. What I mean is that every action he took was from a pure and good place in his heart. I never saw him show malice, or spite, or greed, or injustice, or anger or any of the other bad words Roget’s Thesaurus can match to those I’ve listed. He was just a good person. He was also adorable. He was nicknamed Dewey and also nicknamed Grandpa Nibbles. I couldn’t think of anyone more adorable if I tried – his little red cardigan, his snickering “hee-hee-hee,” his feigned jump of surprise when we demanded of him, “Look, Grandpa! Look what I did!” My brother and I played him and Grams in Euchre. He sat there smiling sweetly through our bombast and BS, and promptly beat us 10-0. Adorable.

I would like to say I was his favorite, as the oldest grandkid. I’m sure my sister will argue with me on that point, but I do feel that I had a special relationship with him. The truth is, not one of us was really his favorite, and that’s because we were ALL his favorite. He had so much capacity for love that there was no such thing as loving someone more or less than someone else. He just loved. Even after the huge family, spawned out of some sort of German Catholic requisite for procreation, there was still love left over. Of course, not for the rabbits that ate his petunias.

I learned about love from watching my grandparents. They taught me how to have the capacity for love. I can think of no better lesson to teach your children or grandchildren. They were married for 62 years when he died. For almost double the time that I’ve been alive, they had loved each other. One time, they came and visited me at the University of Illinois. We went to dinner, and Grandpa just talked and told story after story while Grams bickered with him, “no, Duane, no, that’s not right.” He ignored her and kept right on talking about Will Rogers or whatever. Their bickering was sweet, though, in good humor as if that had been their strategy to cope through a lifetime of commitment to one person, even though that one person might occasionally be annoying. At my brother’s wedding, they continued dancing while the DJ picked off other dancing couples trying to determine who had been married the longest. When they were of the last two couples still dancing he asked, “Sir, what is your advice for a good marriage?” … “Well…” (he paused), “you need to be able to listen.” We all kind of laughed, especially knowing Grams as being more outspoken than not. However, there is really a lot of wisdom there. I would assume that after 62 years, that our significant other’s voice might easily become some sort of background noise, but not for him. One of the last times I was home to visit, when he had been moved to his new assisted living ward, he showed me his little room. On the wall was a picture of Grams, I went over to look at it, and unprompted, he said, “She’s just as beautiful as when we first met. She’s my best friend.” He taught me that the capacity for love is not only a sign of a good heart, but also of a dedicated mind.

I know at this point in my life I’ve become a non-practicing Catholic. Despite it being past Ash Wednesday and almost Good Friday, the last time I heard mass was at Grandpa’s funeral. I don’t know if I believe in God. In my mind, if God exists, then He exists in people like Grandpa, people who are kind, warm, joyous, and infectious in their own joy. My grandparents, like most of the elderly population, are political. Grandpa had a hard time voting Democratic because, being a strict Catholic, he was against abortion. However, he had an even harder time voting Republican because (and also probably due to his Catholicism) he believed that it was the healthy person’s duty to help the sick; it was the rich person’s duty to help the poor, and it was the strong person’s duty to help the weak. He raved about Keith Olbermann’s broadcasts. We would have intelligent discussions about politics and where this country is going wrong – in Pope John Paul’s eyes capitalism was as corrupting as communism. He taught me to challenge authority, question things, to be curious about life, and not see everything as black and white like the pages of a Bible. Ultimately, this was about love as well. We need to not only love our family and friends, but we need to have compassion for humanity as a whole. We all have that capacity within us. In that way, he taught me what God is as well.

I miss you, Grandpa. I miss your sweet smile. I miss our talks. I know that the person I saw the last time I was home before you passed was not you; it was merely a body. You had already gone to a better place. I choose to remember you the previous time I was home. It was almost your birthday, and when I told you, you perked up in that same feigned surprise, “WOW! It is? How old will I be?” You were still happy and joyous despite the cobwebs clouding your mind. Thank you for being my hero. Thank you for never shaking my admiration and love for you, not even by a single step you took. That pedestal will always stand in memory of you. I love you, Paw Paw. I will always do my best to live up to your expectations of me.  I hope in heaven there are enough petunias for you and all of those rabbits.