Reflections

I've spent my week reflecting a lot on what brought me to PSR.  I suppose this event was the formation of the inkling of a far off idea in my head.  I miss my grandfather daily, and I know he would be so proud to see this new path in front of me.

Written for and read at Papa's memorial service:

Papa’s favorite color was orange, and there was no better place he could put it on display than a Giants game.  I can’t recall going to a game at the Stick without him.  Sometimes Grandma would be there, sometimes Melinda, and sometimes other folks, but sometimes it was just me and him.  One time, when I was fourteen, we came to the game early and sat in the family pavilion, watching batting practice for the visiting Cubs.  I stood just inside foul territory, next to the foul pole, waiting in anticipation with my glove on.  Sure enough, here came a long line drive, straight into my glove with a loud thwack…and then right back onto the field as I failed to catch it.  Luckily the player shagging flies picked it up and tossed it back to me: my first actual major league baseball!  Triumphantly, I returned to my seat and showed Papa in celebration before putting it away safely.

After the game started, I returned to the ball, just to peek at it again, but as I opened my glove, it wasn’t there.  We searched our bags, our pockets, the surrounding seats, and the front row, all in vain for a ball that was no longer there.  It was disappointing to no longer have that ball, but I quickly moved on because they were letting children fourteen and under run the bases after the game.  How could I pass at a chance to be on that cherished field?  But as I jogged around the diamond, I saw Papa walking up to one of the workers standing on the field.  I later found out that Papa asked about the area behind the fences under where we were sitting to see if there was a way for us to get that ball back.

That was Papa.  He never stopped thinking about what was important to each of us, and he never gave up on anything.  He was the definition of patience.  When he first moved to Santa Rosa, he saw in his small front and back yard some aging planter boxes and a lot of small rocks.  So, over the course of the next few summers, Papa and I set to work on his grand plan for a new yard.  First was removing the old planter boxes, then came removing the pebbles, then digging, digging, and digging some more.  We took out rose bushes and replanted rose bushes.  We cut through the hard Santa Rosa clay and replaced it with much better digging dirt.  We put together planter boxes, planted trees, laid bark, and finished with laying brick.  Papa had his vision, stuck to it, and eventually we got it done.  So, naturally, the next summer I helped pack up the house so Grandma and Papa could move to Colorado.

That sort of irony wasn’t lost on Papa, who found the humor and joy out of every situation in life.  I remember going to a jazz show in Golden Gate Park and seeing him dance in the aisles.  I remember him driving the hills of Diamond Heights in San Francisco like they were a roller coaster, delighting my sister and me, and terrifying Grandma.  I remember him not getting lost, but just having driving adventures.

But he wasn’t just interested in his own joy; he made sure those around him were having fun too.  He took us to the beach.  He took us travelling around the country to see nature everywhere.  He spent time with us in the pool, letting us ride on his back far past the age he really should have.   He even took those fun times and used them as teaching moments.  He took us to zoos and museums.  He sat with us while we were learning to drive.  He showed us how to create and to build.  For many years, I had a small, ugly, wobbly table that really couldn’t hold anything, but I kept it because I got to build it with Papa.

He was willing to do anything for anyone, and I think this was the core of his being.  His capacity for love was never ending, and he made sure to pass that to the rest of his family.  One year, as I prepared to return to college in Nebraska after a nice Christmas break, my sister was almost ready to give birth to her second child in San Jose.   I was to fly out Sunday morning, and on Friday night we got a call in Cotati that it was time to head to the hospital in San Jose.  As Mom and Erin, and Grandma and Papa scrambled to dive in the car and drive down south, I took the opportunity to speak up, “Uh, I’m leaving in two days and I need to get stuff tomorrow, like a suit, and food, and school supplies.”  So, Papa volunteered to possibly miss the birth of his second great-grandchild in order to take me around town on Saturday, and then to the airport on Sunday after maybe four hours of sleep.

But that’s who Papa was, and that’s who I try to be.  From teaching to travelling, from humor to love, I grew up most of my life living not far from Papa, and spent my time incorporating the best of Papa into my life.  I can’t think of anyone else I’d want to model my life after.  And when next I go to a Giants game, I know Papa will still be there, too, guiding me to that elusive foul ball.