Legacies

On August 3rd, 1941, just months before the United States would enter the Second World War, two people who would have a most profound effect upon the likelihood and shape of my life, got hitched.

My grandparents, Betty and Walter O'Neill, often took care of me growing up, especially during the period of time that we all lived in Florida. They would whisk me away from my parents (we always met at a restaurant whose name sadly escapes me now, but I remember I ALWAYS ordered the fried alligator. It was awesome.), and take me to their own home where my grandmother always had popsicles in the freezer, and all manner of fun board-games to play, movies to watch, puzzles to build, and cards to play. It was always a perfect stay when I stayed with my grandparents.

They often came and visited us wherever we lived, too.

Including a prolonged visit to Spain, where they stayed (lived, really) long enough to make life-long friends of their own.

I remember one New Year's Eve in particular, spent with my grandparents, and the grandparents of some very dear family friends of ours.

In Spain, there's a tradition that you eat 12 grapes - one for each chime of the clock as it strikes 12 - by the end of the 12th gong. Being a child, I mis-understood the instructions and thought you just had to fit all 12 grapes into your mouth by the end of the 12 chimes. To my great delight, I succeeded.

Unfortunately not everyone was as duly impressed as I thought they should be. As I struggled to smile with 12 large, green grapes expanding every inch of my small 6-year-old mouth, they mistook the tears of intense pride in my eyes to be the watery eyes that are so indicative of a person desperately struggling for oxygen. I somewhat recall my grandfather pounding my back as his friend tried to claw the grapes out of my mouth, and the two ladies making a great deal of fuss in the background.

Straight away I knew I would have an unlucky year. In my 6-year-old mind I was cursed because of a slight mis-understanding. It was such an injustice.

It was my grandmother, Grammy to me, who taught my mother how to play Rummy 500. She in turn, taught it to her own children and just about anyone else who could match her competitiveness when it comes to cards (or at the least, endure it).

Grammy was also the one who would hold me in her arms, and scratch my back ever so delicately. I would always insist that she wore her "back-scratching sweater". It was a black wool button-down sweater with a sort of lace-like pattern and quality to it. To this day, I don't know why it held such an attachment for me, except that it was my Grammy's sweater.

My grandfather, Grampy, served in the World War, first as a tank driver, and then as a submarine engineer. During the war, Grammy and Grampy wrote letters to each other. Real war letters. I remember being duly impressed with them as a child.

After the war, Grampy created his own oil company, and started off by literally carrying the oil to his customers on his shoulders. Have you ever tried lifting one of those up onto your shoulders? They're damned heavy.

He had a great, big, booming voice that always warmed any room, and breathed life and energy into any family gathering. He loved toy trains, L&L models in particular. I got to build some models with him, too, including a model replica of his own U.S.S. Archerfish, the sub he served on during the war.

He loved tapioca, and my grandmother's minced-meat pies. He loved to "eat dessert first", and always made sure there was a "breakfast dessert".

He lived life large, and was full of happiness and love for everyone.

A little over a year ago, just after my wife and I returned home from our honeymoon, my grandfather, Grampy, Walter O'Neill, passed away.

And this past Friday, the 24th of July, my Grammy followed him.

In some ways, it was a blessing. Grammy had long been suffering Alzheimer's, to the extent that in large part, she'd been gone from us - mentally at least - for many years.

She was clearly missed Grampy, too. I remember watching her at Grampy's funeral. She sat in her wheelchair, looking frail. She sighed, and slumped her shoulders as if there was a terrible weight on them.

Despite all these facts, or blessings, or whatever you want to call them, I miss her. I miss them both. I miss Grammy's back-scratches. I miss watching and helping her put together puzzles. I miss the freezer that was always stocked with popsicles. I miss Grampy's big voice, and deep appreciation for good food and great company. I miss the way he always lived happily, no matter the circumstances. I miss watching Grammy swat at Grampy as he stole her minced-meat pies she'd baked for Thanksgiving dinner, only to yell at him "Serves you right!" when he burnt his tongue on his illicit bounty. I miss learning card games from Grammy. I miss teasing her about losing a rare and extremely valuable penny. I miss building models with Grampy. I miss arm-wrestling him, too, or hearing all the wonderful stories of their lives. I miss hearing Grampy sing tour-a-loora-loora to, and with, my mum. I miss being able to give them a hug and telling them that I love them.

I just miss my Grammy and Grampy.

All four of my grandparents have left such an undeniable mark upon the entire extended family, and upon myself. Three of them that are gone now, but they've left behind them loving memories, loving families, and impacts on history and their communities that are both numerous and expansive.

It certainly gives me pause to wonder what kind of legacy I will leave behind. If it's even a quarter of the kind of lasting effect on the world and people around me that any one of them have had, I would be both happy and proud.