A Passing Memory

June 23, 2008. It was a Monday. It was cloudy and sunny at the same time, the type of day when Mother Nature just can't quite seem to make up her mind. It was the first day of Max's summer vacation.

It was also the day that my father died.

He was 68 years old, and in fairly decent health. He had been feeling some pains in his chest and his arm, and he had gone to the hospital to see what was going on. While the doctors were trying to figure out what was wrong with him, he crashed, he coded, and he died.

This past week, I have been helping my mother and my brother to prepare for the memorial service that my father never wanted. During the course of these preparations, we have been going through old pictures, looking at videos, and sharing memories. Memories of Dad, memories of each other, and, of course, memories of our own grandfathers.

I was 28 years old when my maternal grandfather died. I have a lot of memories of him. Memories from when I was a child, memories as a teenager, memories as an adult.

I remember when I was little, and he would get down on his hands and knees and let me ride around the house on his back, as though he were my own personal horsey.

I remember the time that I spilled milk on my grandmother's carpet (after she specifically warned me not to do that very thing) and I sprinted out to the garden, bypassed my mother, and spent the better part of the next hour following my grandfather up and down the rows as he plowed, knowing that my grandmother wouldn't dare strangle me if I was standing right next to him.

I remember him at my graduation from high school, at my graduation from college, and at my wedding.

I have many, many pictures, and many, many memories.

I believe that I was in high school when my paternal grandfather died, although I can't remember for certain. I do know that I was younger, and that, because of this, I don't have as many memories.

I remember that he smoked a pipe, and that every time I smell that smell, I am reminded of him.

I remember that he had false teeth, and that he used to drive me crazy by popping the bottom set of teeth out of his mouth and then quickly sucking them back in again. I tried and tried to get my teeth to do the same thing, but alas, it never happened.

I remember that because of the pipe and the false teeth, I could barely understand a word that the man said, other than the fact that he called me "Possum," most likely because of the fact that he frequently found me hanging upside down by my knees on the tree where his hammock hung.

I have a few pictures of him, and I have a few memories.

I worry that my kids are so young, and I worry that they won't have many memories of my father. He was a wonderful photographer, and he could often be found with camera in hand, snapping up memories, and then spending hours in front of his computer, cropping and adjusting and lining everything up just so.

As my mother and brother and I spent time searching through countless stacks of pictures, we came across hundreds of pictures that he had taken, memories that he had captured for us. But we had a difficult time finding any pictures that anyone had actually taken of him.

I know that my children will remember how my father used to take them to see the tractors. When my son, Max, was two, I was convinced that he thought that my father's first name was Tractor. Every time he saw a picture of my father, he would say "Grandpa Tractor! Grandpa Tractor!" As soon as we would arrive in NJ for a visit, my children would tumble out of the car, run up to my father, and ask "Grandpa, can we go to see the tractors?" No matter what he was doing, he would always oblige. Hand in hand, they would wander through the tractor yard, trying out the various machines, pretending to drive, pretending to race with each other. They would always return home covered in dirt, much to my chagrin, and my father would remind me that "Kids are supposed to get dirty. It's how you know that they're having fun."

I know that my children will always remember the tractors.

But what else will they remember?

Will my son remember how my father built him a tee, and then stood in the backyard with him and put the baseball back on the tee, over and over again, while he taught him how to swing a bat?

Will my daughter remember how my father used to sit at the lunch table and flirt with her, laughing at the faces that she made while she tried the different foods that he encouraged her to eat?

Will they remember that he was always in charge of walking the dogs when we went for walks along the canal path, looking for ducks to feed?

Will they remember him working with my mother to craft their floats for the annual Fourth of July parades? Will they remember him sharing his Fourth of July ice cream, drinking his birch beer, buying his 50/50 tickets?

Will they remember how he put out the Halloween decorations and the Christmas lights for them every year, even though every year he said "This is the last time I'm gonna do this!"

Will they remember how he searched online for the perfect Christmas gifts every year, and then sat in his armchair and assembled them after they were opened? And how he fixed these same toys half an hour later when they inevitably and inexplicably ended up broken?

Will they remember how much he loved cars and motorcycles, and how he bought them their own little battery-powered car to ride around the yard and the neighborhood?

Will they remember how much he loved to ride his bicycle, and how he went out of his way to find bicycles that were perfectly sized for them, so that they could one day ride with him?

Will they remember how much he loved Elvis? (Will they ever even know who Elvis is?)

I suspect that Max will remember some of these things, because he is slightly older, and because he never forgets anything. But I worry that Bella will not be able to remember him, that he died before she had a chance to gather enough memories.

I feel sad that he will not see my children and my nieces graduate from high school and from college. That he will not be able to dance with them at their weddings, the way that my grandfather danced with me. That he will not have the opportunity to see them grow to be the man and the women that I know that they will one day be.

I know that these things happen for a reason. I know that he would be happy that he died quickly, without any suffering, and, more importantly, without any fuss (he really didn't like fuss).

I know that I am supposed to be happy that he has gone on to a better place, and I feel sure that he is still with us, watching over us and wishing that he could give us suggestions about how to do things just a little bit differently.

But I am also sad that he is no longer here with us, and I am sad about all of the memories that he has taken with him.

At least I can rest assured that, no matter what, whenever my children see a tractor, they will always be reminded of Grandpa.