Wings of Giants

Red striped socks (pulled up to mid-calf), multi-colored seersucker shorts, a pale yellow dentist shirt with 2 breast pockets, and of course, that hat. “There’s red in everything!" my grandfather would attest after incessant teasing from the lot of us. His loud combination of clothing, a dizzying array of lines and plaids could throw anyone into a migraine in a hot Louisiana second. This was his favorite attire for driving us along the Tchefuncte river for our lazy afternoon skiing. He expected nothing but cries of glee amidst water moccasins, an occasional shoreline gator, and 1” visibility into the murky brown water below, secretly holding creatures of childhood’s worst nightmares. At least I didn’t know about noodling at the time. Such a scenario really taught a girl how to stay up on water skis, despite his loopty-loops and centrifugal turnarounds, creating a braided wall of wake that could take down the Calloway Gardens professional ski team. I’ll be damned if I’m waiting in this water for him to circle around and get me; I’ll drop at the dock and swim in, thank you very much. This, to my grandfather brought pure joy and an ear-to-ear grin with glints of dentures and hints of rambunctious boyhood sparkling behind his eyes. Infectious to say the least, and worth the potential assault by cottonmouths, which somehow never happened.

My siblings and I spent our summers in Covington, LA, a small, sultry suburb of New Orleans, across the 24-mile bridge of Lake Pontchartrain, aka "the Causeway." The folds of my memory are rich with mosquito bites, Spanish moss, suffocating humidity, the aforementioned waterskiing, stifling hot streetcar rides to the Audubon zoo (on visits to the Big Easy), and swimming; always swimming. Our 6 cousins and 6 aunts and uncles joined us at “the shack," ironically titled, every weekend during our summer stay. The food was Southern prolific, thanks to my Grandmother’s mantra “all you want, Love." Her walk-in pantry of sugary treats put Willy Wonka’s factory to shame. Considering that my mom’s cupboards housed Wheaties, Grape Nuts, prunes and dry goods, this was something of which we took full advantage. Sorry, Mom—you did used to make a mean fried chicken and always rocked red beans and rice and gumbo. But back to my Grandfather. We fondly called him “Pépère," the casual French term for granddad. I misspelled it until after he died. A shame, since I am admittedly OCD about spelling and because I hand wrote letters to him often. He never mentioned it. What he did do, however was surround us with his hardworking, strong-headed WWII (he served in the OSS in Paris) generation love that softened and enveloped us with every day he aged.

My mom knew a different man than I. He was a self-made man of the depression era. Overstressed, overworked and overburdened, he did everything to provide for his family at the cost perhaps, of loving on them. This was the generation: dig in, save, sacrifice and be selfless. Connection was via authoritarian presence, aloof in love but strong in discipline. My grandfather’s heart was fed by his life, and over time it grew, Grinch-like, spilling over into me, always with the undercurrent of strength. He was tenderized by the vulnerability of observing the fullness and gifts that surrounded him. There were times when Pépère would be so moved, so touched by something that we wouldn’t know if he was laughing or crying. These emotions looked the same to an onlooker and morphed seamlessly into each other. He was likened to the Buddha, due to his large belly, not his spirituality (he was a devout Catholic). But in remembering him, I think this is a lovely and apt comparison. His presence was powerful, naturally commanding respect. He was loved by many, and although opinionated and high-valued, he carried very little judgment and opened both his home and heart to anyone. He was a generous provider, expecting only dedication to one’s life in return.

Family was everything to my grandfather. I remember when he caught me smoking a cigarette when I was in my late teens. Oh boy, did I know I screwed up. But his reprimand was swift, smart and compassionate and stuck with me for life. You bet I quit soon thereafter. When I was in Naturopathic school and for the few months shortly after graduation, he fondly called me his favorite Doc, confiding in me with staunch confidence and a palpable pride and admiration. “Dahling” was his term of endearment, and I still hear his voice drawling it out at times, whilst feeling his presence always.

I was able to speak with him briefly before he died, during what is called "false Yang" in Chinese medicine. This is a window of bright lucidity as the soul is attempting to leave its dying body. I saw it in my father just 4 months prior to my grandfather’s death. My dad told me about it when his own father died, how he was talking to his old business partners in his hospital room, most of whom had long since passed. It is a brightening of spirit as it readies itself for the crossing over, from the placenta of death into the light. A true gift to those of us left behind. It is closure, celebration and joy. It is forgiveness and awakening. It is the bright light peeking in through the thin veil, offering hope and peace. My grandfather gave me this gift when I called him from work in Portland one day. I was fooled by the false Yang, as so often happens, and thought he was recovering. I think he was a little fooled, too. We laughed and spoke of my 2 kids (he never met my 3rd), of his kidneys and aortic aneurysm that he’d never let any doctor touch, his lab tests, and of his deep concern. Although I was duped, I could detect a subtle edge of fear, as he danced with the Light, witnessing its approach with a fervent faith that was his lifelong devotion to God. He peacefully left this world, transcending his failing body for the first time in many years, leaving us yet again in his choppy wake of love, vulnerability and compassion.

My grandfather has been a strong presence in my life prior to and since his passing. I often feel him around me in challenging times and in moments of joy, usually with my kids. I keep him alive in my stories with them. He navigates my dreams gracefully, entering when I most need to see him, always presenting his summery self and broad smile. I consult him at times, and wonder what he would think of the choices I’ve made in my life, what he’d say about my tattoos (the comments would be followed by a chiding, approval-bereft, Dahling, surely), how he would guide me about my children (the word “cherish” comes to mind) and wondering what he would say about the state of the world. Mostly, I find myself longing for one more evening on the boat, one more full belly laugh, one last silent cry to send me forth into the unknown depths of life, his whispered promise to carry me on his wings.