Cookies and Milk for Breakfast
Yesterday we buried my grandfather, and in celebration of his life I post this:
My favorite memory of my grandfather is my last memory, though I didn’t know it at the time. Last Sunday I went over to Valley Court to have breakfast with them, and when I got there, they were already seated at the table; the juice was poured in gold rimmed glasses, sliced strawberries filled Czech crystal and small coffee cups waited to be filled. And there, off to the side which was soon to be my seat, was an entire plate of cookies.
We split a variety of Hardeez breakfast sandwiches, ate our hashbrowns and chatted about a variety of topics, from my new job, what coffee in the military tasted like during Gpa’s WWII days, and old country and gospel records, like the “Hymnsmen” group he was a part of for years.
After we’d polished off our biscuits, grandma got up to fill our berries with milk, a tradition I was unaware of, but “when in Rome…” I filled mine with milk, too, and ate them like cereal. Grandpa pointed to the plate of cookies and inquired whether or not they were there for looks. I looked at grandma, almost for permission, as I assumed they were perhaps from the night before, and not for a “breakfast dessert;” She laughed and said she was going to make biscuits, but since I was bringing them already she decided to make cookies. So with that, we dipped ginger snaps and chocolate chip walnut cookies in our leftover strawberry milk, as if that was a normal breakfast routine. After one of each, grandpa told me to go ahead and have another, he “wouldn’t look.” At 93, his sense of humor was perfectly in tact and I lingered at the table hoping the breakfast wouldn’t end. The bird clock chimed 9, though, and grandpa wanted to get down some old records in the garage before church. He got up from the table with a disclaimer about the messy garage and began stacking records for me to look at.
I followed him into the garage and he patiently took one record at a time, and handed it to me with an explanation of each. He told me to set aside any I wanted—I took a couple gospel records and was ecstatic to find a country women combination with Dolly Pardon and Kitty Wells on it. He was excited that I wanted a few and when I tried to help him pack up the rest, he shooed me back in the kitchen to get ready for church.
I met him and grandma at church, and sat between them, so thankful that I didn’t have to choose which side to sit on (men’s or women’s) and instead was able to sit with both of them, with my parents and aunt on the same bench. I’ve never seen my family mix genders on a church pew before, and while I didn’t overtly make a big deal out of it, it was certainly a big deal to me. I haven’t sat next to my grandpa in church in at least a decade….probably longer, and I’ll always be so grateful for these last moments next to him. His shoulder pain began soon after and he left church with my dad; I started to get up with him, more to help him up than anything, and he shook a thick finger at me and said, “don’t you follow me out, too.” He wanted me to stay in church next to grandma, and I did.
The nurses at the hospital were annoyed with too many guests to see grandpa, and so I quickly went in his room, kissed him, told him I loved him and left.
I’ve always been an emotional person especially when it comes to my family, but outside his room, I completely lost it. As I hugged my Aunt Karen goodbye, I was a mess of tears and mascara, and just remembering apologizing for crying so hard. I didn’t know this would be the last time I’d see him, but even if I knew, I don’t think I would have done or said anything differently. He knew how much I love him, and that’s enough for me to have a sense of peace, even as I write this.
My only regret is that we didn’t have kids to know him, as I would have wanted them to meet this amazing man who was an integral part of my childhood, but perhaps more importantly, a changing force in my adulthood.
I will always be eternally grateful that I went home that weekend, and even more so, that I could have breakfast with him, hear one more story about the powdered coffee in the army and his experiences as a member of the Hymnsmen.
My grief is only selfish, as I know he’ll soon be in heaven, waiting for my grandmother to join him; when the doctor asked him if he wanted to fight this, he calmly said that he was ready to go.
I only hope that I can live my life with a fraction of the faith, love, and compassion that he did. What a legacy he leaves as a man of faith who was married to my grandmother for 68 years.
A beautiful rose from his casket bouquet.