My Grandfather died yesterday morning at 10:30, surrounded by his family. My father, my two aunts, and my mother. It would have made him happy to know that mom and dad were there - no matter how he acted it was always fairly obvious to me that dad was his favorite. And mom? He loved her like a daughter.

My sisters and I were in the XTerra driving up to the hospital when the calls came in from mom - the first call was that he was fading fast, and the second was that he was gone. There was a moment of brief silence, but then everyone came back to form and started joking and talking again. And if the talking was interrupted by a few tears, and if the jokes seemed a bit forced no one seemed to notice.

When we walked into the hospital room he was laying back in bed, his eyes closed. My father sat in the corner, eyes red. Mom smiled at me through her tears. Hugs were exchanged.

My sadness was tempered by the realization that it was over for him now. The pain in his joints, his soreness, his fatigue, his vision problems. It was all over, and he was at peace.

While the questions of what to do next swirled around the room I took a seat next to my Grandfather - it seemed strange that I would never hear his voice again, never be offered a beer (usually warm) again, never hear him bitch about the most recent boneheaded move by the Browns. Saddest of all, I knew I would never be able to tell him what Alex was up to - no more discussions about his play at football, or baseball, or basketball.

I discovered that it is possible to be so upset that you can’t cry - you start but then just stop, like you were jerked back by a chain. I did that a few times while I put my hand on my grandfather’s arm. Hell, I’ve been doing it for a few days now.

Decisions were made about what to do, who to call, when to do it. Everything was too subdued for me - I made a few jokes, made my parents and my sisters laugh, probably scandalized everyone else. It may sound strange, but you know - It’s what he would have wanted.

Jamie told me that her and Corey wanted me to write the obituary - in her words, “it would actually be about him”. Beth told me that anything I wrote would be better than something that a priest - who didn’t know him - would speak about. I told them I wasn’t up for anything that formal, but that I would be writing about him here, on my website.

It’s hard to decide where to start talking about my Grandfather. He had many titles in his long life - husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, the great one, sailor, soldier, scaleman. Although these are all good, I tend to think of him as what he was to me - not only my grandfather, but also my friend.

As a child it sometimes seemed to me as if others in the family would dismiss my grandfather. Even at a young age, I could see why - he could be distant, aloof, and brusque. He was opinionated. He could be prejudicial. He could be judgmental. He could be blunt.

He was also warm and caring. Over the last few years, when he moved slowly with the use of a cane or of a walker his first question to my wife would often be to ask how she was doing, how she was feeling. Even with all the problems that he was experiencing with his health and with my Grandmother over the past few months he always asked me about my family and about my work when I would call. When we visited he would offer us food and drink no matter what else was happening.

All this week memories of him have been flashing through my mind; going on fishing trips in his van; catching and cooking fish; a trip down to Columbus once; sitting in his basement talking about Browns football; sharing a beer with him after my graduation; watching him hold Alex when he was first born; just talking with him in the basement or on the phone; and just watching him and Alex interact.

I can remember him and Lily down in the basement. She would sit in her own chair and eat snacks with him. I remember how sad he was when he told me about putting her down, and how he kept up a gruff exterior about it. And I remember the look on his face when Alex told him we named our Elkhound Lily in honor of his dog.

I see my sisters and I think of him with them - from the most recent memories of him holding Connor, down to seeing him hold Shannon, Corey, and Jamie when they were born. I can see them all over sitting at the foot of his chair on Christmas Eve talking with him.

I can look at my Mom and all I think of is the two of them exchanging their normal greeting - she would say “Hello, Francis” and he would reply with a “Sus-a-bella how are you”.

I think of him and my father - there was much bitching and moaning on either side of the relationship but to someone on the outside looking in you could see the bond. Even though both of them would likely dispute it.

And I sit here with tears in my eyes and think about the last things we talked about - my grandfather struggling in a hospital bed, slurring his words because of a stroke telling me that he hung the AMPS flag that I had given him. The smile on his face when I told him about something that Alex had seen that reminded him of his Great-Grandfather. After so many conversations, that was the end.

My grandfather taught me many things - he would admonish me to take care of the kids. “Make sure that it stays fun for him”, was his advice when I would talk to him about Alex’s sports teams. He would advise me be there for Steven and Malinda but to respect their independence when we would talk about them. He would talk to me about work, and let me know that there were more important things than chasing the last dollar while nodding meaningfully towards my family.

I’ve been tracking down his wartime service for a little over a year now. Like so many of his generation, when the call came, he answered. Offered the choice between Amphibious Assault and Mine Planters he chose the later - “I’m not crazy” he told me when I asked about that decision. Commissioned a Warrant Officer (j.g.) in 1941 he served his country for 5 years, planting mines, laying cables, and navigating the USACS Joseph Henry and the USAMP Absolam A. Baird.

Through his stories, I learned that one could be a patriot without getting caught up in the minutiae and detail of what he called “playing soldier”. He showed me that being patriotic was more than words, magnetic ribbons, and flags - it was deeds. He made me realize that one could respect and honor the warrior while at the same time criticizing and not supporting the war.

He would sit and talk to me on the phone, or in his house and apartment about his service. I would talk to a researcher online and come back to him with more questions and requests. I would ask him questions about his ships, the missions, the crew. I would even ask about their uniforms and equipment. I’m sure he thought I was crazy, but he always would talk to me about it.

I wrote the other day that I didn’t feel that this was the end of the story; that I felt my Grandfather had touched so many lives that he would live on through those he touched.

I Did Not Die

Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn’s rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.

– Melinda Sue Pacho

Goodbye and smooth sailing, Grandfather. You were and are loved, and will be missed.

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My grandfather is dying.

His carotid arteries are blocked - 100% on one side and 90% on the other. He’s been experiencing TIA’s (micro-strokes) over the course of the last few months. He has had a stroke and is having problems moving the right side of his body. He has an inflammation of his bowel.

There is really nothing that can be done - when you’re 90 years old you don’t have many options.

He called me some months ago and talked to Beth - she brought me the phone downstairs at work, told me he was upset and sounded like he needed help with my grandmother.

That’s when it all started.

Since then my grandmother has been moved into a nursing home. My grandfather has been in the hospital, in a nursing home with grandma, and in an independent living facility. And now back in the hospital.

Let me take you through my Wednesday night….

My mother calls at around 5:30 from Kentucky (she was at a seminar) and tells me that Grandpa wasn’t doing well - he was unresponsive and having problems moving she tells me. Dad is already there with his sisters. I tell her that I’ll head in.

I jump in the shower, get dressed and leave the house within 15 minutes.

I arrive to join my father and his sisters just in time to see a doctor working with him.

“Frank, can you move your right hand for me?”

He raises his left hand.

“Frank, can you move your right foot for me?”

He moves his left foot.

He’s had a stroke, and the doctor goes on to explain what this means to my father and my aunts. Shannon calls on the phone, but Michelle tells her to call back. I stand up against the wall, out of the way. Then the doctor orders a CAT scan of his brain and leaves.

Dad goes down to call Shannon and smoke. Grandpa seems to realize for the first time that I’m there and tries to talk to me. His words are all slurred - which frustrates him to no end - but between myself and Michelle we are able to translate. He’s telling me that he’s hung the flag that Marty - the AMPS researcher - sent me for him. I’ve been emailling with Marty quite a bit lately, and he’s helped me understand what my grandfather did in the Army. I’ve tried to get answers to his questions from Grandfather for him as well - Grandpa likes to talk about his wartime service on the USACS Joseph Henry and the USAMP Absololm A. Baird so that works out well for everyone.

I move closer to him and tell him that it’s really great that he got it hung. I notice that there is an inclinometer on the bed and tell him that Alex saw an inclinometer on the USS Cod and pointed it out as being the same as the one that “the Great One had in his room”. He smiled, and I told him about Alex going to the high school football playoffs with me, about Alex’s basketball, and about Beth, Steven, Malinda.

Debbie goes outside the room and Grandpa is talking to Michelle but it seems more like he’s talking to himself. He doesn’t like the tubes and wires and he’s not comfortable - Michelle tries to make him more comfortable, with limited success.

Dad comes back into the room, as does Debbie. We talk with Grandpa a bit, talk amongst ourselves.

The nurses from the new shift come in, introduce themselves. I move back out of the way while they flush out some tubes going into him and get him comfortable. He’s slouched off on his right side - the side with the stroke damage - and has blood pooling under the skin on his arms, which has the consistency of saran-wrap in some places. There is an IV in his throat - inserting it into his arm is problematic given the state of his veins - and he looks small and sad. I just stay out of they way, a knot in my stomach and tears in my eyes. That this man who has been through so much - ten years on the Great Lakes and in the Atlantic as a mate, decades of running his own business, fishing, watching football, raising a family - is reduced to this state is almost too much for me.

The lead RN pulls Dad aside and starts to talk to him about a DNR - Do Not Resuscitate - order. Dad asks that he be placed on “Comfort Care Arrest”, which means that if Grandfather were to have a cardiac arrest or to stop breathing they would do nothing but give him drugs - no CPR, with it’s risk of breaking ribs and causing punctured lungs or internal damage, no intubation, no ventilator. There is some confusion with all this, so Dad goes off with Debbie and Michelle to call Mom.

I’m alone with Grandpa now, but he’s tired. He’s yawning a bunch, looking around a bit. I really don’t know what to say - what can you say to someone who is contemplating the last days or hours of their life? Within a few minutes though he finally goes to sleep. I hang around for a bit to make sure he’s ok and then head out to find everyone.

They’re out by the elevator and they have my mother on the speaker phone. They’re talking about the DNR and what it means and what will likely happen - I just stand off to the side. It’s not my place, and besides if I tried to speak I would probably break down. The conversation ends, and it’s done. Michelle and Dad go to find the nurse to give her the form.

We spend a little bit more time with Grandpa, but he’s tired. The nurses want to run a tube down his throat for a test to be taken tomorrow morning, but he balks. He calls for Dad, and he grabs Michelle and they head back to his room - they go in, talk to him, talk to the nurses and veto the procedure. He’s had a stroke, and this procedure is for his stomach problems which have subsided some - no need to put him through this process now. The nurses call the doctor who ordered the test and she agrees with Dad and Michelle.

Then we leave to go home. Dad drives me over to my car, as I’ve parked quite a long ways away and it’s bitterly cold. I want to tell him that I’m proud of him, that’s he’s doing a great job with a difficult situation, but Mom calls on the cell phone. So like most things between him and I it goes unsaid. Maybe some other time.

I’ve driven the RX-8, so I start the car and sit to let it’s temperamental rotary engine warm up. Small pieces of snow fall against my window while I sit and think.

What do you do when your life is winding down, when it’s over? Do you fight to the end, or do you just lay down your arms and concede defeat?

I went over and over with it. I finally decided that it’s a question that each person has to answer for themselves when that time comes, with as much grace and dignity as they can muster.

With that, I headed for home and started calling people to let them know what was happening.

It’s Friday now, and the question is: what next?

My grandfather has always been a fighter - but a great heart alone is not going to overcome the numerous problems he is having. Sometime - in the next days, weeks, or months - the end is going to come.

The hardest part for me is over the past few months I’ve learned about a part of his life I never knew. He’s told me about being in the Army during the war - about being drafted, and given the choice of Amphibious Assault or Mine Planters. About being discharged and then commissioned as a Warrant Officer. I’ve seen his picture along with that of his crew, and pages of information describing the life of an Army Mine Planter Service (AMPS) ship. I’ve held in my hands the sextant he used to navigate while he explained the dangers of laying cable. He’s told me about the best parts of serving, and the worst. He’s also told me about how just like today, back then the decisions of stupid or incompetent people would get soldiers and sailors injured or killed.

From my relatives, I get the impression that my grandfather was aloof and remote as a father. He was then - and still is - very opinionated, and not shy about sharing those opinions, whether you want to hear them or not. Worst of all is the fact that my Grandmother and Grandfather did not get along - although I believe that the cause of the continued strife (over the entire 33 years of my life) was more or less square on my Grandmother (she used to refer to him as “the thing down in the basement”).

My memories from when I was a boy are of him always off working in the garage or in the basement, or out of the house. When he interacted with me - which wasn’t often - he was usually short and brusque. But as I grew older, that changed. Shannon had a lot to do with it - she rapidly became him favorite. She could get him to talk, she could get him to laugh. I slowly broke through as well - he would tell me stories of the Lakes and of the Atlantic, of jobs he went on with his father. Tales of his work at the Cleveland Zoo - feeding the bears, caring for Balto and the other sled dogs of Iditarod fame.

Then Alex came along and he became a Great-Grandfather. Or, as he likes to be called, The Great One. I remember the first time he held Alex, over at our house when we lived in Kent. He told me he was perfect, and told me that I needed to watch over him and take care of him. I’m sure he did the same thing when Connor was born.

Shannon called me yesterday - said she was driving to work, listening to Jimmy Buffet and crying while listening to He Went To Paris.

Through eighty-six years of perpetual motion
If he likes you he’ll smile and he’ll say
Jimmy, some of it’s magic, some of it’s tragic
But I had a good life all the way

I can’t even remember what I said to her, but what I should have told her is that she needs to look past the tears and concentrate on the words, because that is our Grandfather in a nutshell. He is part of the fabric of so many lives - his children, his grandchildren, his great grandchildren and generations to come. I’ve so many memories of my Grandfather, some of which Alex has experienced with me, and some that I’ll tell him about as he grows. Kai - who as Steven’s son and my grandson is actually a great-great-grandson to my grandfather will hear of him, as will others. To paraphrase the title, this isn’t the end of the story

My Grandfather’s generation wasn’t big on overt displays of emotion, it’s just part of their makeup. But my Grandfather has told me that he loved me, and Beth, and Alex before - I know it was tough for him to do that, and I love him even more for it.

And what would it mean to say,
That, ‘I loved you in my fashion’?

Sting wrote those words for his father in the song Why Should I Cry For You. It seems a fitting way to think of my Grandfather.

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Yarr, in somewhat o’ a nod to Talk Like A Pirate Day, th’ wench, th’ spud, and I all dressed in our best swashbucklin’ style and went out trick o’ treatin’. It be a world o’ fun - especially when the Dread Pirate Alex would start swinging his cutlass around and singin’ Yo Ho Ho.

In addition to being great fun for Halloween, we be plannin’ on usin’ it to be getting all piratical for September 19th next year!

Arggh, as a special Jason Rants treat, here be the complete lyrics f’r your singin’ pleasure. Be notin’ that they be copyright ©1967 X. Atencio & George Bruns, and that they be originally written for Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean ride.

We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and loot.
Drink up me ‘earties, Yo Ho!
We kidnap and ravage and don’t give a hoot.
Drink up me ‘earties, Yo Ho!

Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate’s life for me.

We extort, we pilfer, we filch and sack.
Drink up me ‘earties, Yo Ho!
Maraud and embezzle and even hijack.
Drink up me ‘earties, Yo Ho!

Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate’s life for me.
Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate’s life for me.

We kindle and char, inflame and ignite.
Drink up me ‘earties, Yo Ho!
We burn up the city, we’re really a fright.
Drink up me ‘earties, Yo Ho!

Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate’s life for me.

We’re rascals, scoundrels, villans and knaves.
Drink up me ‘earties, Yo Ho!
We’re devils and black sheep, really bad eggs!
Drink up me ‘earties, Yo Ho!

Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate’s life for me.

We’re beggars and blighters and ne’er-do-well cads.
Drink up me ‘earties, Yo Ho!
Aye! But we’re loved by our mommies and dads!
Drink up me ‘earties, Yo Ho!

Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate’s life for me.
Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate’s life for me.
Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate’s life for me.
Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate’s life for me.

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That’s Clarence Darrow and William Jennings Bryan to the left there, taken during the Scopes Monkey Trial in Dayton, Tennesse. Twenty years ago I watched the movie Inherit the Wind, and was introduced to this trial. The odd fact is that I watched this movie in a classroom at St. Hillary’s, a Roman Catholic school where I spent four very miserable years back in the 80’s. Although I have many, many issues with that school (which are - trust me - too numerous to mention here in this short little post), in retrospect I have to applaud them for showing such a - from a religious education perspective - controversial movie to us. In actuality it was probably less to do with the school and the pastor (Fr. Koegel - definitely not someone on my list of favorite people) and more to do with my sixth grade teachers - Mrs. Rohal and Mrs. Marxovitch - and the principal Mr. Antonelli.

Why the sudden resurgence of my interest in this movie? Earlier the other day, my wife was watching the movie in the basement while I was working - but I just couldn’t help myself, I had to sneak out of the office a few times to refresh my memory of the film.

I have to admit that a few minutes into watching the film, a rather obvious fact smacked me right in the face. This film, made in 1960, based on a play written years earlier which used as it’s inspiration an event that occurred back in the 1920’s could very well describe the very anti-scientific climate that seems to be sweeping across the country today. Not a day passes without a mention of creationism (sorry, intelligent design) in the news - from the current Dover School Board trial, to the ceaseless efforts of the Discovery Institute to use ID as their “wedge” to get religion into the classroom.

To me, one of the more memorable scenes in the movie is where Matthew Brady, the prosecutor, is examined on the witness stand by defense attorney Drummund. But how much of the movie is real, and how much is pure Hollywood? At times, the Brady character seems almost comical in his actions and answers. In reality, truth is stranger than, or at least as strange as fiction. Much of it the dialog in the film is real or is based rather closely on the official court records - below is a brief portion of the actual transcript between Clarence Darrow and William Jenning Bryan. This is taken from Doug Linder’s Famous Trials site - which I found on a google search for the Scopes Monkey Trial, but there is a veritable treasure trove of information on other famous trials, from Socrates up through the Clinton Impeachment.

Mr. Darrow:
Q–Mr. Bryan, do you believe that the first woman was Eve?
A–Yes.
Q–Do you believe she was literally made out of Adams’s rib?
A–I do.
Q–Did you ever discover where Cain got his wife?
A–No, sir; I leave the agnostics to hunt for her.
Q–You have never found out?
A–I have never tried to find
Q–You have never tried to find?
A–No.
Q–The Bible says he got one, doesn’t it? Were there other people on the earth at that time?
A–I cannot say.
Q–You cannot say. Did that ever enter your consideration?
A–Never bothered me.
Q–There were no others recorded, but Cain got a wife.
A–That is what the Bible says.

Is it naive of me to wonder why we are having this debate still in 2005? To wonder why there are still people out there - quite a few and well financed, I may add - that want to have my children taught religion in the classroom? And not just any religion, a particularly fundamentalist, close-minded, and holier-than-thou brand of Christianity seems to be the order of the day.

I consider myself fairly low-key and easy going - if people want to believe in a god, many gods, or earth-spirts then that’s fine. Believe that the earth is flat, that it’s only 6,000 years old, or that it’s supported by turtles. That belief is your right - I may not agree, I may think it’s stupid, but what I agree on is that you have the right to believe in that. But that right stops with you and your family. Don’t try and force your way into my schools, or into my municipality, or into my government. Don’t try and force my schools to “teach some controversy” that only exists in your head. Don’t try and hang the title “Christian Nation” on our country and in doing so trample on the rights of people who don’t believe in the same narrow minded religion as you - the Humanists, the Muslims, the Hindus, the Buddhists, the Wiccans, etc, etc….

I really wish that I was more eloquent, but unfortunately I’m not - I’ll let Clarence Darrow describe how I feel:

If today you can take a thing like evolution and make it a crime to teach it in the public school, tomorrow you can make it a crime to teach it in the private schools, and the next year you can make it a crime to teach it to the hustings or in the church. At the next session you may ban books and the newspapers. Soon you may set Catholic against Protestant and Protestant against Protestant, and try to foist your own religion upon the minds of men. If you can do one you can do the other. Ignorance and fanaticism is ever busy and needs feeding. Always it is feeding and gloating for more. Today it is the public school teachers,tomorrow the private. The next day the preachers and the lectures, the magazines, the books, the newspapers. After while, your honor, it is the setting of man against man and creed against creed until with flying banners and beating drums we are marching backward to the glorious ages of the sixteenth century when bigots lighted fagots to burn the men who dared to bring any intelligence and enlightenment and culture to the human mind.

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