Goodbye, Grandpa
Oh, hi friends!
I’m sad. It’s as simple as that. My Grandpa died last week and I haven’t had any optimistic or inspiring words for this newsletter, or for any work, really. That’s fine. I know it will come back. Writing a little might help.
I’ve mentioned Grandpa many times over the years in this newsletter. You can see why in his wonderful obituary; he was quite the Renaissance man. Back in his early days, he was the original side hustler — except he called having multiple gigs “moonlighting” or, better yet, “nightcrawling.” This started when he was a kid in Pittsburgh. “I used to deliver newspapers on Sundays. I would go out’n holler: ‘Get your papers here!’ Hucksters, that’s what they called them. I also worked at a grocery store on Friday, Saturday, half-a-day Sunday. I would never see the little paycheck. It would go to momma’s grocery bill at the store.”
When he turned 96, I was in California and we played Bingo (his and Grandma’s favorite pastime, and it’s much more fast-paced than you’re imagining). Grandpa always tips people who help him, from the golf cart driver who drops him off at the casino's front door, to the woman who brings us free water and coffee. I asked him about it, and he said, “Share your wealth…what little there is.”
A year or two after that, I posted this video in the newsletter from the Central California Fast Pitch Softball Legacy Project in which he talked about playing softball “for the love of the game.” Not for the trophies or the win. For the love of the game.
When I called him for his birthday, he said “Today’s a day just like any other.” He asked what I was working on. I told him a little bit of this, a little bit of that. “You’re a spring chicken,” he said. “You still got a lot of time to do things, so you can only make the best of it.”
A few months ago, Grandpa wanted the local newspaper to feature me and Do It For Yourself. The office was closed because of the pandemic, so he wrote a letter to the editor. The editor read his letter, assigned a reporter, and a story was born. I was inspired by him trying — and trying again. He wanted something and made it happen.
He turned 99 on February 5 and was healthy and in good spirits, as usual. (He still lived at his home and drove, by the way…!)
I always thought of his increasing age as both a constant and a kind of miracle. The happy birthdays would continue so long as the world kept spinning.
I see now his age wasn’t the miracle. Knowing him was.
My younger brother Eric and I weren’t able to fly home to California for the funeral since we’re not fully vaccinated. This is...frankly, it's awful. (My second shot is Sunday.) But we’re going to honor Grandpa’s sporting legacy today by playing catch in Central Park. I think he’d appreciate that. Like he said, you can only make the best of it.
We’re all spring chickens, according to Grandpa.
We all have a lot left to do.
Let’s make the best of it.
My heart.
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Thanks, as always, for reading.
Love, Kara