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May. 24th, 2012 02:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stormdogI haven't written much about the proceedings following the death of my grandfather. But there hasn't been a whole lot to say I suppose.
Emotionally, My parents and I are managing alright. As I've noted, we all knew this was coming for some time. Before his death, my grandfather had been in progressively declining health for a while. He was hospitalized with pneumonia a few times, and during one of his illnesses, the thought is he might not have gotten enough oxygen to his brain for a while. The last couple times I visited, he was very lethargic, spending most of the time dozing. I did get to have a conversation with him for about five or ten minutes, during which he was glad I was there and happy to talk to me.
His death, I suppose, was probably something of a relief for him, if that makes any sense. To others of us too, to some extent. I miss him, and I'm glad he was in my life and for all the memories of him and physical things of his that I have, use, and will use. I feel bad for not having spent more time with him than I did, but I think I'd feel that way regardless of how much time I'd spent with him.
I've been at the house my grandparents shared with my mother's sister and her husband a couple times now, looking through pictures and other things. Yesterday while I was there, someone found a box with some of my great-grandfather's notebooks in them. It's funny; as we looked through the basement office, my mother realized that some of the cabinetry there came from the house that she grew up in. She commented that she felt more of an emotional connection to those cabinets than most anything else there. For my part, though I feel a connection to my grandfather's tools and other things, it was those notebooks that most seemed to get to me. It's odd, because they weren't even my grandfather's. They belonged to my great-grandfather, who I never even met. But my grandfather had talked to me about him a little bit; about the kind of things he did. Looking at graph-paper notebooks with hand-numbered pages full of circuit diagrams and related notes, It made me think of my grandfather as a boy, growing up with that person I never knew. We found a several page, typewritten biography that Great-grandpa wrote too; I think I'll post some of that later on as well. There are some great stories there.
I wish I remembered more of my grandfather from when I was younger. I didn't really talk to him much until I was in my mid-twenties and back from Detroit. When I moved to Michigan, he gave me a hammer that he made to take with me, and it really moved me. The fact he felt that connection with me, that he wanted to give me that little bit of himself to take with me, has made me wish that I'd been less scared of people, more talkative. He and I had done a little bit of metalworking together before I moved away, but the process of getting to where I could easily sit and be social was a slow one, and far from complete. Back then, I really couldn't have had the kind of conversations with him that I would like to now. I got to talk to him more the way I wanted to over the last couple years, but still not as much or as often as I wish.
I will miss him dearly, with love, sadness, respect and admiration. And, just as before, every piece of hand-worked iron I see will make me look appreciatively and think "I bet my grandfather could do that."
Emotionally, My parents and I are managing alright. As I've noted, we all knew this was coming for some time. Before his death, my grandfather had been in progressively declining health for a while. He was hospitalized with pneumonia a few times, and during one of his illnesses, the thought is he might not have gotten enough oxygen to his brain for a while. The last couple times I visited, he was very lethargic, spending most of the time dozing. I did get to have a conversation with him for about five or ten minutes, during which he was glad I was there and happy to talk to me.
His death, I suppose, was probably something of a relief for him, if that makes any sense. To others of us too, to some extent. I miss him, and I'm glad he was in my life and for all the memories of him and physical things of his that I have, use, and will use. I feel bad for not having spent more time with him than I did, but I think I'd feel that way regardless of how much time I'd spent with him.
I've been at the house my grandparents shared with my mother's sister and her husband a couple times now, looking through pictures and other things. Yesterday while I was there, someone found a box with some of my great-grandfather's notebooks in them. It's funny; as we looked through the basement office, my mother realized that some of the cabinetry there came from the house that she grew up in. She commented that she felt more of an emotional connection to those cabinets than most anything else there. For my part, though I feel a connection to my grandfather's tools and other things, it was those notebooks that most seemed to get to me. It's odd, because they weren't even my grandfather's. They belonged to my great-grandfather, who I never even met. But my grandfather had talked to me about him a little bit; about the kind of things he did. Looking at graph-paper notebooks with hand-numbered pages full of circuit diagrams and related notes, It made me think of my grandfather as a boy, growing up with that person I never knew. We found a several page, typewritten biography that Great-grandpa wrote too; I think I'll post some of that later on as well. There are some great stories there.
I wish I remembered more of my grandfather from when I was younger. I didn't really talk to him much until I was in my mid-twenties and back from Detroit. When I moved to Michigan, he gave me a hammer that he made to take with me, and it really moved me. The fact he felt that connection with me, that he wanted to give me that little bit of himself to take with me, has made me wish that I'd been less scared of people, more talkative. He and I had done a little bit of metalworking together before I moved away, but the process of getting to where I could easily sit and be social was a slow one, and far from complete. Back then, I really couldn't have had the kind of conversations with him that I would like to now. I got to talk to him more the way I wanted to over the last couple years, but still not as much or as often as I wish.
I will miss him dearly, with love, sadness, respect and admiration. And, just as before, every piece of hand-worked iron I see will make me look appreciatively and think "I bet my grandfather could do that."
