January 30, 2004
-
surprises
My grandfather was by all accounts a big man and bald too. His humor was dry and wry and his goodness surpassed that of most. He died this week and though it’s been awhile since I last saw him, I lost something deep. He was an outdoorsman, fond of hiking mountain trails, even climbing back in the day. The picture I best remember is of him standing on some oriental mountaintop, spelunking ensemble akin to something Hemingway might wear. He was broad and tall and exceptionally generous, often taken advantage of, but so successful that it could be written off for the taxes of living and trying to live clean, simple, and well. There’s something to be said for men like that. He loved his first wife who gave him six daughters and his heart broke when she went terminally ill after their last girl. My grandmother was a beautiful woman who loved to sing just like my mother does now. But slowly, her mind drifted and became distant, lost to another realm. Her body followed years later, by then an emaciated woman bit by cancer. He married again, I think for companionship, and in secret, he pined for his first love. Over the past year, with the passing of his second wife, he found himself a girlfriend, sweet and nice but with a love for gifts and things – not a bad woman though.
My mom always thought I took after him in a number of ways. Still, I can do without the shiny head and I’m holding on to the young man strands I yet have. I think of that photo of him on the mountaintop, rugged cap on his head. I remember how he wasn’t a big talker; he wasn’t private but he spoke with measured tones and with a hint of irony having seen all man’s good and bad in his big factories, in his daughters’ churches, in the grit of a condensed, high-rise city and even in the sweet countryside home where my brother and I used to catch and torture dragonflies like curious, blissfully cruel kids do. In my youth, I remember respecting and fearing him because here too was my family but full of mystery. He was never mean. He was calm. He called my mom his favorite and he told her fun things about his first love. When they took a trip out to Yosemite on a big American tour bus, he shared things my mom never knew, things that made her laugh and cry. Walking a guided path, he blew snot onto the ground because that’s okay where he’s from and my mom laughed and told him it wasn’t proper etiquette; he just thought of it as nature. Dry, wry and kind, he died this week and it came as a surprise. It hit me with force and as I talk to people, looking skyward or at my shoes when alone, I know that I wanted to make him proud. I wanted this man to see me grow up to significance. I’m working my way there, see.
This is the numbing throb of a dull quiet room. My faith is inescapable and my Christianity is ultimately who I am. But he was such a good man even to cynical eyes and though his faith was tenuous at best, his was a surpassing, big goodness. As I live harder and busier, full of open and secret dreams, introspection fades and through all the life noise, I’m ignorant of those inner things that drive me – some godly, some worldly, some strange if only I knew. I laughed and worked and studied and led and tried my best today. My grandfather died this week and I wanted to show him or I wanted him to at least hear someday of what I am becoming. Isn’t it strange how a mind and heart are layered and wrapped up with all these hidden things.
I’d like to ask how he wooed my grandmother.I’m choked up by the worries and concerns of this world and I’m yet muscling the vine out of the soil, missing the point entirely. I hope to see him again someday and as another kind, spelunking and climbing man, I’d like to sit and share a drink with him, asking him questions, willingly taking his wisdom. From his vantage point, I pray from the clouds, I’m sure he’d have words to say.
—
Blue Mountain (Hung Liu)
—-
Another belief of mine: that everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise.
- Margaret Atwood, Cat’s Eye
Recent Comments