On Being Henry's Granddaughter

My Grandpa passed away a few weeks ago. It was sudden and left my family stunned and sad. I wrote this the day he passed away, Saturday, April 22, and I read it during his funeral service the following week. It took all of my energy or courage--whatever you want to call it--to read this aloud, but I'm glad that I did.

I was going to share this a few weeks ago, but I was too overwhelmed to put this post together. This essay means a lot to me and I want to share it to remember him and to honor him now that he's gone.

On Being Henry's Granddaughter

What comes to mind when I think about my Grandfather? A ship weathering a storm at sea, a lamppost illuminating a dark street, a warm voice on the end of a telephone line. He was the only Grandfather I knew and he liked what I thought all Grandfathers liked; early bird specials, overstuffed recliner chairs, and vacationing in Florida. He dressed the part, with his sweaters and slacks smartly matching and his leather driving cap slouched low on his head. He was a total Grandpa, which meant that he was sweet, happy, and a reliable source of unconditional love.

Henry was a handsome man. He had kind eyes that softened when he smiled. I get my height from him and my looks from his mother, Katie. It's a superficial connection, but one that made me feel closer to him. I was part of his brood. You could tell by my round face and big cheeks. Yup, those Simons were my clan.

Being Henry's grandkid meant that you had to give him a kiss on the cheek as soon as you walked in the door. That was non-negotiable. It also meant that he would take care of the check and would get agitated if you offered to pay, "Put your wallet away, kid."

One of my favorite things about my Grandpa were his particular expressions which he used often:

"Come on! Give a nice Jewish boy a break!" at the yield sign, inching through the traffic, pleading with the other drivers to let him in.
"God Almighty," his favorite exclamation in times of exasperation, which I mimicked as a kid, but it wasn't as effective as when he would say it.
"So long," his parting words at the conclusion of a telephone call, never "Goodbye."

He took pleasure in the simple things: a cup of coffee at the end of his meal, a dish of Friendly's pistachio ice cream, and reading the newspaper, section by section, undisturbed. He also loved giving directions with authority. "Well, what you want to do is take a left at the next street and then go down for about two miles but beware of the construction once you cross the railroad tracks." As he described the twists and turns I was about to encounter, he would trace the route in the air with his pointer finger.

He was the kind of guy that paid his bills on time and always had a stamp. He liked his routines and prided himself on his organizational skills. I remember rifling through his office as a child. He had a big, orange office chair upholstered in the world's scratchiest fabric ever. It could recline and had wheels which provided hours of amusement for my young self. Everything on his desk had its proper place; you can be sure that the paper clips and rubber bands had a designated spot in the top desk drawer. Even as an eight-year-old, that attention to order impressed me.

It wasn't until I was much older that I learned about the quiet courage that defined his life. As a medical technician in the Second World War, he helped liberate a concentration camp and fought in the Battle of the Bulge. For his birthday last year, my mother compiled a scrapbook of the documents surrounding his years in the service. There were news articles and official letters detailing his deployments. Leafing through it, it was evident that he was a true hero, but you would never hear it from him.

Also found in the scrapbook were the dozens of love letters he penned to my Grandmother while he was stationed overseas. A devoted husband and father, his family meant everything to him. One of my favorite stories of his was how he fought tooth and nail to come home from the War to see Vivian by her first birthday. He managed to do it, just in the nick of time.

And, he clearly adored my Grandmother. She was the love of his life. They were a package deal: soulmates, best friends, a true, beautiful marriage. Although they shared 65 wonderful years together, it still feels too short.

I was afraid that in losing him, our family would feel fractured. But, by honoring him it will only bring us closer together. I was afraid that it would feel empty now that he's gone, but his memory will be a constant presence for us to find solace.

We have so much to thank him for. Through his sacrifices, he built the foundation for our family to proper. I look around today and see his legacy reflected in us, his grandchildren. His dignity, his compassion, and his loving spirit lives on in us and he will never be forgotten.

He was loved very much. He will be missed very much. And, he will always be ours, very much in our hearts.