to papa

when my dad was 16 years old, his father announced that their family would be spending the next year in italy. my grandpa, a beloved chemistry professory, had been offered a job at an english speaking school in naples and decided the time overseas would be a grounding experience for his 8 children. yes, 8 children. he thought perhaps they were becoming too spoiled, unaware of those less fortunate then themselves. looking back on this, my dad always smiles. "less fortunate then us? in the private boarding school your papa taught at, we had perhaps 10% of the income of most families and three times as many mouths to feed."

my dad was so appalled at the idea of spending time abroad that he begged my grandma, who has always been devoted to her oldest son, to let him stay home in the US. my grandpa heard his request and had one answer, no.

so my father went. and he looks back on that year in italy as the most remarkable of his childhood. he spent the year traveling to little villas in naples and florence and venice and rome. he went backpacking across the mountains of europe. being the oldest child, he was the privileged one allowed to stay up late into the night with his parents and (gasp!) drink wine with them. they would sit and talk and he learned about the story of their courtship and my grandpa's tales of adventures in the army and my grandma's rebellious childhood in new york city (yes, i got it from her). he loved those days.

a few months ago, my grandpa died. he had spent the last 25 years of his life (half of his marriage to my grandmother) battling parkinsense. the disease crippled his body and eventually took his mind as well. i cried a lot when he passed away, maybe because it was my first real experience with death, maybe because i'm emotional, or maybe because i always knew i was my grandpa's favorite.

but more than anything, i think it's because i know that my father is the man he is today because of his father. when my dad spoke at the burial, he talked a lot about their time in italy. how great a man my grandpa was to allow his children that opportunity. and my dad cried, something i think i've only seen maybe once before in my life.

because of the toll the disease took on his body, he had to be cremated. so we buried a small wooden box of ashes. and in the ground with that box is one memento: a picture of my grandpa and his wife and children, taken in rome. everyone is smiling and laughing and beautiful. and i know my papa would love that. if i see him in heaven, i must remember to tell him.