Ok, so I don't know what else to put up, so here's a bit of my entry in the "memories" section of the book my mom and I wrote about my grandfather, earlier this year. It's a family tradition my dad started, where we write about one of the grandparents on what would be their 100th birthday; it's a way for new generations to get to know their ancestors through the eyes and remembrances of those who actually knew them... so there you go..


The carpet in the house where I spent the first 12 years of childhood, as I remember, was a very welcoming place to take a nap. It was that prolific, classically 70's shag in a deep chocolate - but in the front room, which perched above the garage and had a massive sliding glass door that led to a balcony overlooking the driveway, the carpet had been baked by the westerly sun that drenched the room every afternoon to the point that it had faded to a kind of greenish-blonde. That was my favorite room -- not so much because it was my first bedroom (I had graduated to another room in the house by the time I was six) but because it was one of the places where Poppop found his refuge.

He had come to live with us in San Diego when I was in about first grade, and although I remember a few things from life before his arrival, the majority of my memories of that house include his stately presence. He was somewhere in his early 70's when he moved in (and that, of course, was the main factor behind his joining us), and he was, for the remainder of our years in that house, a vibrant and engaging man despite his age. I had never known him, really, before he came to live with us, so of course the term vibrant is relative. He had been an avid golfer and swimmer, but by the time he was living with us, was swimming less and less in our newly added pool, and not playing golf at all anymore. And yet, I have very vivid memories of his passion for certain sports... whenever there was a PGA tournament on,...

Ok, so I don't know what else to put up, so here's a bit of my entry in the "memories" section of the book my mom and I wrote about my grandfather, earlier this year. It's a family tradition my dad started, where we write about one of the grandparents on what would be their 100th birthday; it's a way for new generations to get to know their ancestors through the eyes and remembrances of those who actually knew them... so there you go..


The carpet in the house where I spent the first 12 years of childhood, as I remember, was a very welcoming place to take a nap. It was that prolific, classically 70's shag in a deep chocolate - but in the front room, which perched above the garage and had a massive sliding glass door that led to a balcony overlooking the driveway, the carpet had been baked by the westerly sun that drenched the room every afternoon to the point that it had faded to a kind of greenish-blonde. That was my favorite room -- not so much because it was my first bedroom (I had graduated to another room in the house by the time I was six) but because it was one of the places where Poppop found his refuge.

He had come to live with us in San Diego when I was in about first grade, and although I remember a few things from life before his arrival, the majority of my memories of that house include his stately presence. He was somewhere in his early 70's when he moved in (and that, of course, was the main factor behind his joining us), and he was, for the remainder of our years in that house, a vibrant and engaging man despite his age. I had never known him, really, before he came to live with us, so of course the term vibrant is relative. He had been an avid golfer and swimmer, but by the time he was living with us, was swimming less and less in our newly added pool, and not playing golf at all anymore. And yet, I have very vivid memories of his passion for certain sports... whenever there was a PGA tournament on, Poppop and I (because, of course, I was his miniature shadow) would pull up our chairs in front of the television downstairs and watch to see how our favorites would do this time around (Arnold Palmer, Tom Kite and Jack Nicklaus were his... Fuzzy Zoeller and Chi Chi Rodriguez were mine, mostly because of their odd names). He taught me more about the game of golf from that room than I ever learned in my first three years actually playing the game. Never mind the fact that, due to normal child-like behavior, I was often overcome by the need to look away from the TV and out the window behind it, into the backyard just beyond…hoping perhaps to spy that tiger that I was SURE lived somewhere on the property, or perhaps in the hopes that I'd find another king snake to capture… But Poppop forgave me my intermittent inattention, and was always ready to tell me more about the putt I had missed while off scrambling around the back yard. He was an exceptionally forgiving and gentle man, and as a grandfather, he was like a deep well of patience, kindness, and wisdom.


Poppop had been a pipe smoker for years. I think that's the reason I take, almost without noticing, long and deep breaths whenever I smell a pipe, even now... although, they have become such a rare oddity these days that I can't remember the last time I actually saw someone smoking one. I can, however, remember very distinctly the smell of his pipe. Poppop always smoked a blend of Vanilla and Black Cherry tobaccos, and although I can't remember the name of the brand, have a clear mental picture of their bags within the tins that kept their precious contents safe from the drying effects of the air. There was a bright blue emblem of a tall ship, one of those stately 4-mast sailing vessels reminiscent of a day when pipe smoke was as common as cigarettes today, or more so. It was the same kind of ship that was carved into Poppop's scrimshaw tie clip. He always bought two tins, one vanilla and one black cherry, to separate and mix by hand with a level of dexterity and care that comes from years of practice, the muscles of his hands more aware of the balance of motion than his consciousness. His hands showed the wear of his years, with their skin covered in the spots of age, and many scars of some careless brush with a counter edge or the back of a wooden chair that, with a disarming ease, would cause a nick or cut that would break his now-fragile skin. I was always amazed how a spirit so full of life and strength could be wrapped in such fragility, and I was always anxious when he would bump his hand and bleed, not noticing for several minutes while I winced, imagining the level of pain involved to be far worse than it really was... he would laugh, shrug and say "whoops! Your mother will have me skinned if I bleed on the chair... will you go get my styptic stick?" Of course, the pun was lost on me until I was much older and had to laugh with his memory rather than him. So off I went dashing to the medicine cabinet for the stick that would clot the bleeding, wondering how on earth he could be so aloof about bleeding when, at my age, losing blood typically involved a trip to the E.R. at the Naval hospital (where the nurses and residents knew me by sight as much a result of my frequency of visiting as a patient, as for the fact that they worked with my dad).

I have a series of wonderfully vivid memories of him sitting in his old chair in that room above the garage that overlooked the street, with its warmed and worn shag carpet... and in each, it seems, there's a rich cloud of velvety pipe smoke that makes the rays of sunshine take almost tangible form as the dust of the day gently glides down their beams, and its richness is heady with a sweetness and tang that his masterful blending has lent the shredded, leafy fuel. The sun feels warm in these memories because it had been softly radiating into the room for well over half the day, and the carpet was inviting and soft, and before long, I'm moving from daydream to daydream, listening to him turn pages with a cadence and frequency that you could set a clock to.

Poppop was an avid reader, the benefit of retirement and perhaps one of the refuges he sought from his own process of physical decline or of missing his wife, Betty (who we affectionately called Nana). James Michener and Gore Vidal were two of the authors you'd be most be likely to find him reading, with an occasional Ayn Rand or James Clavell thrown in. And every day, twice a day, he would pray the rosary. First, in the morning, and then later in the afternoon, usually sitting in a director's chair in some sunny spot on the back patio. Despite years of Catholic school, of going to mass every morning with my mom before class started, of CCD and all the other avenues for learning about one's family's religion, Poppop was my first experience of faith. The rest was religion, or theology - a wholly different study than faith when you see it in its purest practice. Poppop was probably the single most faith-filled human being I have ever known. It wasn't the same kind of faith that drives some to become vocal advocates of a cause, or prolifically volunteer at every opportunity within their church. Poppop had a quiet, very personal, and highly developed sense of devotion that even though I didn't understand until many years later, always fascinated and moved me. I was, in fact, intimidated by it. I would get a scolding from my mom or dad if I bounced up and bothered Poppop when he was saying his prayers. Of course, he never seemed to be bothered... he would always quietly smile, hold out his hand and let me curl up in his lap or next to him, and would hold my hand or place his hand gently on the back of my neck, while the other hand quietly worked in sync with his prayers across the string of rosary beads... as long as I was quiet or prayed with him. There was a sense of peace and hope and calm that I have always remembered about my grandfather, and one of many reasons he's missed.