The Last Hand...
This is the title of the eulogy I had planned to write for my grandfather, nearly as far back as I can remember. I think the idea of a eulogy itself came from seeing my father speak at his grandfathers funeral . It was one of the few moments in my young life that I remember being overcome emotionally. My typical reaction to emotional stresses is to suppress them (still is, really). The title itself came from the many games I played with my grandfather: fish, rummy, then later, canasta and hearts (we never played war--perhaps he had gotten his fill of that in France). Underneath it, though, I always wondered when the last hand would be. Probably a healthy appraisal of mortality for a youngster, now that I think about it. To be honest, I don't really remember the 'last hand' we ever played. In his final years, he took to Parcheesi and I took to the road. I was able to visit him a few months before he passed, and we spoke almost daily for weeks on the phone up until his final days.
In preparation for the memorial service, I had jotted down some notes on what to say, but never fully committed myself to text. (The same thing happened with my wedding vows--I had written 5 points on a napkin that I never looked at, and consequently don't really remember what I said). What I write next, then, is a combination of what I said, what I had intended to say, and what I meant about my grandfather:
Theodore J. Berry was the complete man. A man who, unlike his middle initial, stood for many things. The Bible says that the righteous man will be blessed with a long life and will live to see his children's children (or child, in this case--I'm carrying the torch alone for this generation). This is one of the best deals God offers down here, and my grandfather had been given the deluxe addition. In almost 9 decades, he had proven himself to be many things:
A farmer (by birth, not by preference)
A musician (drums, and let me mention, a paid musician)
A soldier (shipped to France, lost, found, injured, repaired, returned)
A devoted husband (63 years, y'all)
A mechanic (the job which got him off the farm, helped him meet his wife, and led him to 37 years of work with GM, who at the time, was still hiring Americans)
A devoted father (2 healthy children, still healthy. The man never took a promotion at work if it meant he couldn't leave work behind at 5pm and go be with his family)
A talented craftsman (stained glass art, whittling, I even saw him turn an apple into a swan once)
A survivor (at least 3 strokes, at least 3 heart attacks, prostate cancer; the man lay in a French foxhole for 24 hours, his legs ribboned by shrapnel, and never used a cane until a few months before he passed; he was in the process of surviving nearly a year of kidney failure and bone marrow cancer when a final stroke took him slowly and painlessly away. I picture God saying 'All right, Ted, point made, you're tough--hey, Jesus and I are starting a 4-hand Euchre league and Moses needs a partner...)
He taught me many things, as I reflect. He taught me faith and conviction. He taught me how to take care of your responsibilities: family, home, work. He taught me to always be willing to learn and try something new, whether it's a craft or a group or a vacation spot. I'd say the most important thing he taught me was how to eat nutty donuts on a paper plate so that when the nuts eventually fall off, you can fold the plate and shoot them into your mouth like a slide. I thought it was revolutionary, considering how much effort could be spent in corralling and collecting the errant nuts. Maybe that stuck in my mind because my mother and grandmother were less than pleased with his sharing that technique with me (something my grandmother would no doubt have called 'ignert'). In many ways, he was a father figure to me--catching me in many of those awkward child lies and behaviors, disapproving and shaming them out of me all at once. Whereas I saw my father every other weekend growing up, I saw my grandfather closer to every other day--you calculate the impact.
Anyway, those are some thoughts on one of my heroes. I can't say I'll thwart career ambition as successfully as he did, or lay my life on the line for some great cause, or prove as artistic and handy as he was. I will, however, should I have a a son, give him the middle name of J, which will stand for nothing. But I can only hope then that he, like his namesake, does.
In preparation for the memorial service, I had jotted down some notes on what to say, but never fully committed myself to text. (The same thing happened with my wedding vows--I had written 5 points on a napkin that I never looked at, and consequently don't really remember what I said). What I write next, then, is a combination of what I said, what I had intended to say, and what I meant about my grandfather:
Theodore J. Berry was the complete man. A man who, unlike his middle initial, stood for many things. The Bible says that the righteous man will be blessed with a long life and will live to see his children's children (or child, in this case--I'm carrying the torch alone for this generation). This is one of the best deals God offers down here, and my grandfather had been given the deluxe addition. In almost 9 decades, he had proven himself to be many things:
A farmer (by birth, not by preference)
A musician (drums, and let me mention, a paid musician)
A soldier (shipped to France, lost, found, injured, repaired, returned)
A devoted husband (63 years, y'all)
A mechanic (the job which got him off the farm, helped him meet his wife, and led him to 37 years of work with GM, who at the time, was still hiring Americans)
A devoted father (2 healthy children, still healthy. The man never took a promotion at work if it meant he couldn't leave work behind at 5pm and go be with his family)
A talented craftsman (stained glass art, whittling, I even saw him turn an apple into a swan once)
A survivor (at least 3 strokes, at least 3 heart attacks, prostate cancer; the man lay in a French foxhole for 24 hours, his legs ribboned by shrapnel, and never used a cane until a few months before he passed; he was in the process of surviving nearly a year of kidney failure and bone marrow cancer when a final stroke took him slowly and painlessly away. I picture God saying 'All right, Ted, point made, you're tough--hey, Jesus and I are starting a 4-hand Euchre league and Moses needs a partner...)
He taught me many things, as I reflect. He taught me faith and conviction. He taught me how to take care of your responsibilities: family, home, work. He taught me to always be willing to learn and try something new, whether it's a craft or a group or a vacation spot. I'd say the most important thing he taught me was how to eat nutty donuts on a paper plate so that when the nuts eventually fall off, you can fold the plate and shoot them into your mouth like a slide. I thought it was revolutionary, considering how much effort could be spent in corralling and collecting the errant nuts. Maybe that stuck in my mind because my mother and grandmother were less than pleased with his sharing that technique with me (something my grandmother would no doubt have called 'ignert'). In many ways, he was a father figure to me--catching me in many of those awkward child lies and behaviors, disapproving and shaming them out of me all at once. Whereas I saw my father every other weekend growing up, I saw my grandfather closer to every other day--you calculate the impact.
Anyway, those are some thoughts on one of my heroes. I can't say I'll thwart career ambition as successfully as he did, or lay my life on the line for some great cause, or prove as artistic and handy as he was. I will, however, should I have a a son, give him the middle name of J, which will stand for nothing. But I can only hope then that he, like his namesake, does.
posted by Master of None at 12:29 PM
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