R.I.P. Anthony T. Gill 1921-2008
I was so blessed to be there when my grandfather passed away a few weeks ago! He’d been so frustrated and so trapped in his body with advanced Parkinson’s (and then at the end, lung cancer as well) — see my blog Please Take Him Soon, from November 2007 — that it was truly a gift not only to be able to see that face free of frustration and sadness after so long, but also to actually see the peace on his face right after he passed on, as he was such a special person to me!
As an adult, he told me many times of the fact that I had been the only baby in the family it seemed he was allowed to hold and nurture — all the women had otherwise taken the reins for all the others, and I could tell that it had been very special to him. So I guess I took great pleasure in being there when he went, because I always felt more bonded with him than with many others.
And now, I do miss him, and I guess I’ve just started to really reflect on my memories with him over the years. My sister, always the one wanting the pomp and circumstance of things, volunteered to do a eulogy, and has asked me to send her memories she can incorporate into her speech. I guess I’ve resisted that quite a bit, because my memories are very personal to me, and it’s hard to pull things out into bullets when the whole picture adds up to more than the sum of its parts. So I figured I’d write out the swirls of thought forming a picture in my head, and she can take what she needs, though I feel like it would be difficult to adequately and effectively incorporate this into someone else’s perspective.
Feeling isolated and lonely — a forgotten child in my family’s sea of deep complexities during a very, very serious period (again, see the earlier blog, listed above) – Grandpa was always the one who paid attention to me. My sister had tight bonds with my grandmother and great-grandmother, and my mother was busy being a single struggling mom in the ’70s and ’80s and not around a lot. And I had no siblings close in age to me (my sister was 6.5 years older). So I often felt l was just this added annoyance and a pain to everyone… except Grandpa.
He was a light in the grayness of many days of my childhood, and though I’m sure there were times when he just wanted to relax and unwind after a day/week at work, he never made me feel like I was an unwanted presence anytime I’d go upstairs to see him. He would always give me the big, wet “Grandpa smooch” and show interest in my day, or what was going on with me. He most always seemed cheerful in my presence, and often gave me the lift I guess I subconsciously needed.
He was a WONDERFUL storyteller, too! He loved history, and had been in WWII himself. Some of my most cherished childhood memories were at family gatherings, when I’d park myself by Grandpa and my (grand-)Uncle Tommy — who had been in WWII, as well — and in the fog created by a mixture of cigarette smoke and the smell of beer, listen to them talk about their war stories, and get into debates about which was more important/better/you name it — the Army or the Navy (as Grandpa had been in the Army and Uncle Tommy had been in the Navy). I LOVED those times! When Uncle Tommy passed away in the mid-’80s, Grandpa so missed their debates that while waiting for Uncle Tommy’s inurnment at Arlington Cemetary, I’ve been told countless times about how he’d take Uncle Tommy’s ashes out and talk to him (as he and my grandmother were keeping the ashes for my aunt during that period).
History was definitely not my favorite subject in school, but Grandpa made it come alive for me. There were many times I would go up to see him just to get some clarification on something, to help me with my homework, studies, a project, or just about anything. I recall him spending several hours once explaining the Truman Airlift to me, because I had to cover it for a report… and I was so enthralled in his account that I barely wrote notes, but was easily able to recall almost everything he told me afterwards, and cited him as a historical resource in my paper. I think he missed his calling as some sort of history teacher, because I would’ve done much better in the subject at school with a teacher like him!
He patiently tolerated me practicing the piano downstairs and would regularly listen to my flute progress, as well…. while repeatedly reminding me that he played the fife long ago, himself. He also had a penchant for music, too — another bond I had with him — and loved when he took up the concertina and accordion. Proud of his Irish heritage, he would joke about one day learning the bagpipes… though I’m sure it was my grandmother who steered him clear of that!
At larger family gatherings, such as anniversaries, landmark birthdays, and weddings, Grandpa often seemed to be the life of the party. There are more than several occasions I remember Grandpa leading the Conga line on the dance floor, and dancing with me, too. He was great at telling humorous stories and jokes, as well, and naturally attracted people to him in those settings because of the sparkle in his eye and smirk on his face.
I know I didn’t see him much during my mid-teen years — as is typical, I guess — but after I’d moved out of the house and been on my own for awhile, I forged a whole new relationship with my grandparents. It was then that I was able to sit and listen to Grandpa talk about our Irish heritage, and he would tell me about the historical research he’d done on his family over in Ireland. In fact, stored in the depths of the crawlspace of my house is a booklet of information he sent me — unsolicited – years ago, after I’d gotten married and settled down, which contained a detailed account of what he’d found… which I cherish.
As an adult, I became more interested in the history of things — or should I say the mystery of things — and I would still love to puzzle with Grandpa about a wide variety of subjects, from random facts of little importance to the historical vs. Biblical findings of the life and times of Jesus. He loved having someone with whom to puzzle over such things — it was like going on an exploration together – and I quickly learned that I shouldn’t debate with him unless I had researched and was well prepared to go to battle! These kind of conversations always drove me to learn more, and I thank him for spurring me on to look at the actual history and related accounts behind any story.
I also learned of his quirks and biases as well. First of all, he was very biased in terms of being Irish. I found out there had been quite a few family scuffles over the years regarding his view of the non-Irish ethnic background of someone or the other. However, I myself never really noticed that until I was dating my husband, and I’d brought him for a weekend to meet the family. Scott already had a bonus in Grandpa’s book — he’d heard that Scott was in the Navy — and at that point, I’m sure he’d been chomping at the bit to talk military for about 7 years (since it had been that long since Uncle Tommy had died). So, the next all-important question was presented in this not-as-subtle-as-he-thought way:
“So, Scott, what’s your last name?”
I remember laughing abruptly, and Grandpa looked at me all wide-eyed, as if he didn’t understand why I was laughing. Before Scott answered, I remember cutting in and saying, “Coulter, Grandpa… is that Irish enough for you?” Though he denied his intention for a moment, I quickly saw that mischievious sparkle in his eyes, and then he laughed too, acknowledging his exposure. Once that was settled, he progressed right into asking a million questions about his experience in the Navy… and that was the end of that!
Another quirk of my grandfather that always caused me to laugh — of course, after everything was deemed OK – was the fact that he was a bona fide clutz. He was constantly hurting himself due to various accidents! I remember him breaking his foot once when falling off a ladder while working on an A/C wall unit in the house I grew up in. He’d trip, fall, bang into things, you name it… that was just Grandpa. Personally, I think it was directly related to the fact that he was always thinking, thinking, thinking about some other topic or subject instead of focusing on the matter at hand. One time, when I was 16, I remember him driving me to my part-time job at a nearby mall, and he got so involved in a conversation with me that he blew right through 3 or 4 stop signs and red lights on the way, causing me to wonder if I was going to arrive there in one piece! When I said something (after about the 2nd stop sign he missed), he just laughed it off in his impish way and said something along the lines of, “Did I? Well, it doesn’t matter. There wasn’t anything coming the other way, anyway.”
Shortly after we’d moved to Virginia, my grandparents and grand-aunt followed suit, sold their houses and moved to an apartment right up the block from us. At that point, it had been 9 years since I’d lived in the same house and 8 years since I’d lived any closer to my immediate family than a 3.5-hour drive, so I admit it was great to have them a long walk away. I had my first child right after they moved down; shortly after getting home from the hospital, I brought her to their apartment and, remembering how he’d gushed about being able to hold me as a baby, went straight to Grandpa and handed her to him. How stiff he was, but how happy! And again, I heard him recount how I’d been the first baby he’d been “allowed” to hold, now with the next generation in his arms. I have a picture from not too long after, when my sister and her family were visiting, when we took a picture of Grandma and Grandpa with all of the 5 of them. My oldest is in his arms, and the picture just caught the right moment as he was looking down at the baby, with that same combination of stiffness/nervousness and happiness that I remember.
I was sad to have to move away about 4 months later, because I’d actually enjoyed being close to them again. However, we were still within a 3.5-hour drive, so we visited as frequently as we could, and my daughters adored him! He would let them sit on his lap and share his snacks with him, whether or not we approved. Before the Parkinson’s set in too badly, he taught the girls how to play Mario Brothers on Nintendo, and that was a joy and the cause of many bouts of laughter in itself! He would heave his body back and forth with the controls, so much that one time my mother called to let me know he’d had quite an accident and banged his head because he’d been playing the game, got so excited playing it, and missed the edge of the bed he’d been sitting on when jumping up and down and landed on the floor, hitting the edge of a desk or table on the way (again, back to the clutz factor…).
As the Parkinson’s took hold of him, and his mobility and communication skills declined more and more, I would sit with patience while he struggled to get the words out, wanting so badly to relive the way we’d discussed things years before. That was painful for me, but I hung on to it, knowing it wouldn’t be a very long time until I wouldn’t have the luxury of his voice at all anymore. Though he couldn’t move to play with the girls, I could see his delight in them by the look in his eyes when we paid a visit. However, he still had a sense of humor, and I always found a way to laugh with him that came easily.
Though we knew his time was short, when the time came, he actually dove downhill very quickly. About a week before he died, my mother called to let me know he’d basically been confined to his bed, he’d stopped eating, and they didn’t think it would be long. I toiled over whether or not to go and make one final visit, because I knew how bad he looked, and that it really wasn’t him that I would see — especially when I knew he’d become skeletal and somewhat comatose and unaware.
Unfortunately, the commitments of business ownership had prevented me from visiting since February — on my birthday — and I sort of liked the idea of that visit being my last one with Grandpa. Because, regardless of how terrible he looked or felt or how little he could communicate in discussion, he was able to sing “Happy Birthday” to me almost perfectly, without a stutter, hesitation, or hiccup. And because of that, he must’ve sang it to me at least a half dozen times that day — it became sort of a joke between us, because every once in awhile, I’d lean towards him and say, “Grandpa, I’m feeling sort of unloved at the moment. I think I need someone to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me right about now…” which would cause him to burst into another robust round. (Today I wish I would’ve recorded it on my cell phone. I enjoyed myself so much that day that I didn’t even think of it until afterwards…. what a great way to remember him!)
In the end, I decided to go, but would wait until that Saturday afternoon to make the trip. My sister made it down from NY earlier in the week, and there was a really good chance he wouldn’t make it through until I made it there. I was OK with that; again, the last time I’d seen him, I’d told him I loved him, and had really enjoyed seeing him. Plus, regardless of not having it recorded, I can still hear him singing “Happy Birthday” in my head, and I won’t forget it anytime soon.
But I went, and he was still hanging on. I looked at him there, in the bed, a shriveled up shadow of the grandfather I’ve loved so much since I was a little girl, held his hand, looked in his glazed over and half open eyes, told him I loved him, and that the girls loved him, and kissed him… and knew that deep down, I really had wanted to see him one more time, and was glad I had made it.
That next morning, he died. I’d literally stepped down to my grand-aunt’s apartment down the hall to tell her where things were, and he died about 2 minutes later. And when I went back in afterwards to say goodbye, it was all summed up his face. Peace and freedom, at last.
Now, I remember when I was somewhere around 17 or 18, and a very good friend of mine lost her grandmother, who was “off-the-boat” Irish. I went to the funeral, and marveled at the party-like atmosphere of the family’s get-together afterwards. I remember recounting it to Grandpa, who told me that was the way the Irish did it — that it was time to celebrate the life of the person who’d just passed on instead of mourning them. In fact, he told me, “…when I die, that’s what I want… sit me up in the corner, put a beer in my hand, and have a big party!” And I know he said it a multitude of times throughout the years, as well. And, though it is his turn for the pomp and circumstance of the funeral at Arlington Cemetary at the end of the month, I’m sure most in the family will remember him that way, and though we won’t be able to prop him up in a corner, I know for sure I will have a beer in his honor after he’s put to rest.
I’m sure somewhere he and Uncle Tommy are together again, already embroiled in the next Big Debate.
Rest in peace, Grandpa. You will always be in my heart, in my joy, and in my humor. And thank you.
Hair, hair, it’s everywhere! On the rug, and in the air…
Just two short months after losing my grandmother, my great aunt (I think it’s really supposed to be “grand-aunt,” but you get the gist) has unexpectedly gotten onto the soon-to-depart list.
