Memorial

Today marks the third anniversary of my grandfather’s death. Three years seems like an eternity ago, and even though I never thought it possible at the time, my life has adjusted to his absence. It didn’t seem to take very long for my grandma and me to settle into a quiet, comfortable routine without him. It has been a while since I have looked for him sitting in the living room chair, blanket covering his knees, television blaring in the background. Very rarely do I wake in the middle of the night to track any movement in the hallway, confirming that the trek from the bathroom back to the bedroom was completed successfully and without incident. Eight p.m. no longer has the same significance as I have no one to prepare a bowl of spumoni ice cream (with a dash of brandy to enhance the flavor) for.  So much of my life in Kansas City was spent helping care for him, watching out, listening, that with him gone, I felt adrift. When he was around, I had a purpose, one that I embraced and enjoyed. Without him, there was a void, one that I haven’t quite figured out how to fill.

My grandfather was a good man, dedicated to family, country, and his faith. He wasn’t perfect by any means—he had quite the temper, was stubborn beyond belief, and could be unforgiving.  He was even a bit of a scoundrel in his youth, running booze across state lines, lying about his age to enlist in the National Guard, and who knows what else. But, even with his shortcomings, he was an amazing person.

Although born in Omaha, he was a Kansas Citian through and through. Kansas City was the place that would always be home no matter how far he traveled, whether it be out on the Pacific during WWII or following jobs in St. Louis or Atlanta. He went to school here, attended college as well. He met my grandmother here and started his family here. Drive down any street in Kansas City, and he would have a story to share. He knew the gangsters, the elite, the who’s who of Kansas City. In turn, people here knew his name, respected him.  I wish I had paid more attention to his stories at the time instead of dismissing them as the ramblings of a nostalgic old man. But, it is always easier to think that in hindsight…

My grandpa was always a proud man. He rarely complained, and he did everything in his power not to feel like a burden to his family. He never was. Even as his health began to fail and his body weaken, his spirit remained strong. Parkinson’s robbed him of so much, but never his mind. When he could barely read, he would pull out his magnifying glass to read the newspaper, keeping on top of the world around him. When he could no longer even do that, he would have either my grandma or me read to him, books about Kansas City that reminded him of his past, and he would add his own commentary where the author had omitted pertinent information. And if he were in a mischievous mood, watch out. He could make a snowball or a water gun materialize out of nowhere, hit you with it, and make it disappear. The only evidence that anything had even happened, besides the tell-tale wet spot on your clothing, would be the faux innocent look on his face doing a poor attempt to hide his amusement.

For a man so independent, it could not have been easy to accept the help of his wife, children, and grandchildren as he did. It was hard to make him hand over the car keys, harder still to ask him not to make minor repairs around the house. He did so with little fuss, but it felt like in asking, we were asking he give up a part of himself. To compensate, we did what we could to make sure he never wanted for anything. I took him and grandma to Mass every morning. We arranged for trips to the store, asked him for advice, anything everything to make sure he felt included and important, as he still very much was. Some days, it was just enough to have someone to sit next to him, not saying a word but just being there.

I do not know if I will ever quite grasp how fortunate I was to spend so much time with him. I just know that I was one of the lucky ones to share in his life. I got to witness his humor, his kindness, and his love. I still think that his relationship with my grandma is one of the sweetest I have ever seen, and if I find something even half as good as what they had, I’ll be lucky. And although he was never one to say it, he was extremely proud of all his children, all of whom shared his good heart and generous nature. When he did finally pass away, he did so realizing that he was leaving things in good hands. I sometimes think that was one of the reasons he fought for so long…he just wanted to make sure everyone he loved was going to be okay.  He wanted to be sure my grandma would be taken care of, and his children would support each other in even the most challenging times.

Learning to live without someone you love doesn’t mean you have forgotten. But, I still struggle with find the best way to remember my grandpa. I guess it will be in the stories I tell for the years to come. It will be in how I continue to watch out over my grandma, to make sure that even when she is lonely or missing him, that she knows she is not alone. And, it is in living my life in a way that would make him proud, to ensure that what I do ensures that the name Hayes remains synonymous with character, strong morals, and, of course, good humor. 

Big Ideas

Recently, I finished a book that, while assuming the guise of a more articulate/literary version of chick lit, posed some questions about how we view and conduct our lives. Perhaps the most profound observation was about how we (as humans) attempt to fit the story of our lives into a traditional narrative structure—where every major event seems to have a distinct beginning, middle, and end. There is the exposition, the obstacle, and the resolution, all of which are only truly visible in hindsight. Everything happens to move the plot along, no matter how small that action happens to be. We each should be the heroes of our own stories, and each story should have some greater impact on the surrounding world if it is to be one at all worthwhile.

But, does life ever really fit into such a neat, tidy construction? Not really.  Indeed, much of what we do is meaningless, at least in the sense of contributing to some universal narrative If life were like a novel, my choice to drive to work via Main Street versus Gillham would have a huge impact on not only the rest of my day but my entire life and potentially, the lives of others (I would show up to work late, have to park in a space far, far from the building, further delaying me from reaching my desk on time, which would mean I miss an important phone call from my manager, etc.).  In real life, all of these things may still happen, but there would not be some ulterior reason, no grand cosmic scheme that drove these events. It wouldn’t be the day that my life changed for a grander purpose. It would just be a day that happened to be awful.

Life cannot really be narrowed down to such a fine point. It is far too complicated, far too messy for that. Yet, try as we might to avoid such a conceit, we still have a tendency to see our lives as one big adventure. Or, as I shouldn’t speak for everyone else, I know that I do.  Why do I do it? It gives me a sense of purpose. It makes me feel like there is order in the world. Random events make me nervous because I want to understand…indeed there is a need to understand. I don’t like mystery, I don’t like uncertainty. I unconsciously seek out patterns and connections, and maybe, I tend to create connections that really are not there. I want to believe that some of my more irrational choices were not so irrational, that I knew one decision would change the entire course of my life.

I like the idea of being a hero. It is far more exciting to think in those terms than it is to recognize yourself as simply another cog in the corporate wheel. Maybe that is why I tend to seek out different experiences, like traveling to Kazakhstan or hiking in Croatia. It isn’t only because I want to see these places for myself, but also because I am writing my own story in a way to make it more exciting, more intriguing for some invisible audience.  So, in a sense, in buying into the whole idea that life is one great novel (or movie if you prefer to think in those terms), I make major life decisions based on audience appeal.  If I am bored with my life, then certainly my invisible audience is, too, and that requires a major shake up. I need to change just for changes sake, not necessarily because things are not working as they are. Hmm…

Most likely, I have given this idea way too much thought. I tend to do that with ideas that intrigue me.  And, the longer I think about an idea, the more muddled and tangential my musings on it become, as has happened with this piece. Still, it cannot hurt to ponder some of these things. Granted, it isn’t going to change how I live my life, but it does help me keep my mind fresh. I think mulling over ideas isn’t so much about giving credence to them or rejecting them outright…it is more to keep our mind alive and open to possibilities. It helps remind us that the world is infinitely more fascinating and complex than we will ever be able to fathom.  Or it means absolutely nothing, and it would be better for all if I leave this kind of thinking to those far more intellectual…