For Grampy

Listening to: "Born Free" sung by Andy Williams, "Slaughter on 10th Avenue" by Richard Rodgers

Christmas 2012

Easter 2013

Thankful for my candid shots right now.

Christmas 2013

The we-can't-handle-the-flashes-anymore photo

As any sibling says when one of their other siblings is missing: "The perfect family photo." (Sorry, Uncle Jeff.)

Christmas Morning Breakfast 2014

Just a month and a half ago...

Grandpa’s gone.

Present tense. Because even after you die, you don’t stop being dead. The line about Holden Caulfield’s brother Ally: the dead never stop being dead. Now it hits home.

It was just really unexpected. Sure, he’s been sick on and off for the past few years. But he was doing better, and the cancer wasn’t the cause: it was the pulmonary fibrosis. The doctors are speculating that chemotherapy may have actually been the better course

Could have been. Just like with Jonathan Larson, and billions of others who have been misdiagnosed.

It’s easy enough to be mad at the doctors. But it doesn’t make me feel any better.

Grandpa was an incredibly strong man. He was a respected police officer in town. Stubbornness was his trademark characteristic. He was a curmudgeon in the best sense—whenever Kristina and I were jumping around all excited upstairs, we’d soon get a phone call from him telling us to stop making such a racket.

After the last hospital visit, we cousins went to Grandma and Grandpa’s house to pour through a bunch of photos. As the parents came in and the noise decibel increased, I was expecting Grandpa to come around the corner from his computer with a paused Text Twist game on the screen and scold us for making such a mess, sitting in his chair, and talking loudly.

It wasn’t a harsh scolding. Never ever. When I was younger, I was afraid, of course. I was afraid of everything. The story I’ve been telling most is when Sam and I covered his bait shop sign with a drawing of our own creation. Grandpa came outside and reamed us out, taking no prisoners by yelling at my friend Sam and me alike. We both recall it quite vividly. But when I told the story, my mom and my grandmother laughed, because they said he had never ratted us out to either of them. Even he had enough compassion to not hand us over to my mother. (Sorry for the joke at your expense, Mom.)

The stories of Lake Compounce are hardest to recall. If this gives you any indication of what our grandfather was like, he made a daily list recording each ride that Kristina and I had ridden that day. And if we went over 12, that was considered a good day. Kristina used to grumble about not being able to play the games because Grandpa wouldn’t let us—he thought they were a waste of money. We only drank soda because it was free. We shared pizza and utilized coupons whenever possible. To get the full worth from our season passes, we’d have to go three times a week for Grandpa to be satisfied. He’d ride with us on the carousel: he’d sit on the bench and watch us scream with delight as we gazed at ourselves through spinning mirrors and pretended the horses were galloping.

Obviously, though, the ride he loved most was Ghost Hunt, but only because he could show us up. We’d sit in those little carts and point our glowing “guns” at the tiny dots next to cardboard ghosts. By the end, I’d usually have a measly 150 points, Kristina would have at least 500, and Grandpa would cream us easily, scoring over 1,000 points—sometimes 2,000. Well, he was a police officer. Maybe the odds weren’t in our favor.

Even if Kristina couldn’t go, we’d still go alone. And he’d have me sit next to complete strangers on rides so I could get on the ride faster. It was only okay with me because I could run off the ride and see him on the bench waiting patiently. He always wore a baseball cap and had sunglasses on usually. He’d be holding my glasses and whatever money I had brought for lunch. We brought as little as possible so we wouldn’t have to waste money on lockers.

I suppose I should compile a guide:

How to Spend the Day at Lake Compounce According to Joseph Aivaz

1.    Go as early as possible. Arrive before the crowds—even before the park is officially open. You can wait outside.

2.    Pretend you forgot the season passes at home and watch grandchildren freak out. Imply that it was their fault, only to pull out the cards and smile.

3.    Amass a ridiculous amount of parking tickets. Keep them on the page like one of those old-fashioned coupon books.

4.    As soon as gates open, command children to run to Boulder Dash—you’ll catch up with them later. But they have to get to Boulder Dash right away, no question about that. It’s the longest line every day of the summer.

5.    Afterwards, circle around and cover the Enterprise, Ferris Wheel, Thunder and Lightning, etc.

6.    Get daily ego rush by showing up grandchildren at Ghost Hunt.

7.    ONLY IF YOU AGREED ON EARLIER: Go to the water park. Make sure the kids recognize that this is an enormous treat as you take their bags. But they only have a limited amount of time.

8.    Even if you are going to the water park later, do not let the grandchildren come to Lake Compounce in flip-flops. Flip-flops can fly off rides easily, and you can’t go on some rides without sneakers. Sneakers or we’re staying home today.

9.    If age and height allows, don’t skip Kiddie Land. In fact, if they’re in the sweet spot age-wise, it’s possible for them to ride every single rollercoaster in the park: the Kiddie Coaster, Wildcat, Boulder Dash, and Zoomerang. Extra points if they do.

10. For lunch, you have to eat at 11:00 am—11:30 at the latest. No way we’re eating in the Croc Pot with all the screaming children at rush hour.

11. Make them split a Chicken Tenders and Fries. No way they’d finish one each by themselves.

12. Make sure they pick up extra honey mustard—it will be war if they have to fight over who gets to dunk the last piece of chicken.

13. On a good day, head to the back of the park where Thunder Rapids lies. When children complain about getting their shoes and socks wet, tell them to stop whining.

14. Ride Sky Ride with them. Play I Spy: Things People Lost version. Some noteworthy finds include Winnie-the-Pooh dolls, one sneaker, T-shirts, money. Lament that you can’t collect these things. Praise yourselves for not being stupid enough to drop any of that stuff.

15. Speaking of money: make it a challenge between them to collect as many coins as possible. Extra points for quarters (obviously) and if they dig through a particularly hard-to-reach or grimy spot to get even a penny. You’re teaching them good life skills.

16. If grandchildren get a free soda, that’s fine—but they’re going to finish that cup before they go on a ride or before they get another one. And don’t even think about filling it up and trying to throw it away because it’s accidentally water: it’s their own fault for not checking.

17. As day winds down, go to the ice cream counter or a Dip-n-Dots stand. Choice flavors include: Banana Split, Mint and Cookies, Raspberry, Pistachio.

18. Pick up a candy apple for Grandma on the way out—not a caramel apple, but a candy apple. Those are her favorite.

19. If it was an especially good day, promise to bring them to the Roches’ pool to swim.

We really were some lucky grandchildren.

For most of us cousins, he’s the only Grandpa we’ve had. Like in my case, my Grandpa Willard died when I was really young—too young to even remember, much to my chagrin.

I’ve been watching pigeon videos on YouTube. It’s endearing to hear your brother praise pigeons, as my grandpa loved raising pigeons. Not to eat—for shows, sometimes, but mostly for fun. Fun, you know—wading through bird feces. But on a good day, he’d put a chair out and let them walk around the yard. My dad called the pigeons the Connecticut Walkers.

He’d let them fly off in the direction of the high school. Sometimes a pigeon wouldn’t come home, and we’d all be sad. Because as much as we’d make fun of them, we loved them all. They were beautiful—white and cooing, flapping their feathers. The hawk would circle around the birdhouse, but there was no way Grandpa was going to let that hawk do anything to his birds.

In the last few months, he had to sell a lot of his birds. Fortunately, he sold them to a collector who appeared to love pigeons as much as him. We did keep some, though. One anemic bird is named after me—well, with my Chinese name.

There are too many memories to count: my father and grandfather working countless weekends on outdoor projects—the biggest was the deck—him sitting at the head of the table every holiday dinner, when I’d eat over their house and he’d scold me for barely touching my food, him making me watch the news with him and to not pepper him with constant questions, that time he asked Auntie Michelle why “ho” was spelt that way in the newspaper, how I’d make carrot cake for him because it’s his favorite, his signature knock when he’d come over the house (only to open the door with a key anyway), him and Grandma being first to come to our house on the holidays, me attempting to explain how to use the new Comcast cable box to him, the time we had UCONN floor tickets for a big women’s basketball (only basketball worth watching) game and he complained about me playing my Gameboy during a game people would give their left arm to watch at this distance, him playing Text Twist forever on his computer, watching him tuck his pencil out of the way when it became too distracting to work on his Sudoku, delivering letters to the post office for him with his exact amount—down to the last penny—of money for the envelope, him at the holiday dinner table during dessert—with a Spring Awakening coffee mug in front of him. He drank his coffee black.

Whenever I was scared, he always was there to make sure I didn’t chicken out. He snuck the training wheels off my bike one day, much to my not-so-delighted surprise. He made me pick worms with him one evening, and I spent the next few years constantly checking the soles of my shoes for dead worms. He forced me down into the basement with his bait. And I loved every moment of it—now, that is.

One of my proudest moments was at the Robert Holcomb Scholarship Award dinner, when the policemen began reminiscing about how tough my grandpa was. I went up and said that I just saw him as my grandpa, and I could even get away saying some things to him that I’m sure these grown men couldn’t. Everyone laughed.

Always fishing. Always grumbling. Always eating. Always watching TV with a giant set of wireless headphones that engulfed his head. Always a husband, father, grandfather—everything.

There are so many things I wanted to ask him. I wanted to ask him about the Korean War—he wore his veteran’s hat with pride—and his years as a police officer. Just today, I discovered that he was shot in the butt—just like Forrest Gump—and received a Purple Heart. I should've known that.

There’s so much I want to know. I wish I did more than give a quick peck on the cheek as I dashed out with whatever cooking utensil or food product I was "borrowing" for my next baking enterprise.

He taught me how to drive. Seeing his pride of all of us made me glow. He sat at the head of the table, literally and metaphorically. He was the definition of a family patriarch. 

Since I'm selfish, I wish he could see me graduate. I wish he could see the rest of the cousins get married and start families. But since the world is not a wish-granting factory, I am at least comforted that he got to hold Colin, my baby nephew-cousin-it's-complicated-to-explain (he's my cousin Amy's son), and that we all got to watch him open his gifts on Christmas morning. There's more I want, but I know Grandpa would scold me for being so pessimistic. 

My last goodbye before heading off to Paris was to him and Grandma. It's a good thing we don't have foresight, or I couldn't have left. I felt terrible for leaving. But Paris certainly wasn't going to keep me from coming home for him.

I love him. That’ll always be in the present tense.

(P.S. I know he'd say that if I am going to post this long thing, I should at least include this wonderful video about pigeons.)

Cher Ami, decorated WWI pigeon messenger

I really wanted to take Grandpa to the Korean War Memorial in DC. I always think of him when I walk through. (In eighth grade, when the Social Studies class was polled on whether their grandparents fought in Vietnam, I half-raised my hand and said, "Um, my grandfather fought in the Korean War." The class's response? "What's that?" Grandpa was dismayed when I told him. I told him that our generation just had no hope.)