On June 15, my grandfather passed away. This is what I wrote in rememberance.
June 15, 2006
Ronald Junior Harris, June 13, 1924 - June 15, 2006
Papa died this evening. He was a veteran of World War II, a truck driver, a husband of 61 years, a father, a grandfather, and a great-grandfather. He was 82 years old.He was a good man.
I was not really close to him, certainly not as close as most of the other grandchildren were. Growing up, my cousins, aunts and uncles all lived in and around the homestead in Jamaica, Vt., while my brother and I would only visit occasionally, perhaps go with my parents once a month or so for Sabbath dinner. And even then, he was gone as often as not, on the road somewhere between here and California, driving his truck on another cross-country run.
Scott and I called him Papa. I've never asked why that was--perhaps it was just an arbitrary way to identify one set of grandparents from another (as we are doing with Jackson)--but as I was growing up, I learned that all of the other cousins called him Gramp or Grampy. Since I was closer to my Grampy here in Lancaster, I assumed it kids always called the grandfather that they are closest to "Gramp" and the other "Papa," and I perceived that they had a closer relationship with him.
I wouldn't have traded the life my parents provided for me in Lancaster for the opportunity to grow up in and around the family, but I wish I had known him better.
Now that I am an adult, I regret that I never rode in the truck with him on a cross-country trip. Many of the other cousins my age would travel with him over the summer. When I was in high school, I toyed with the idea of traveling with him one summer, but the chance never came and I probably would have chickened out even if it had.
In some respects, there was an artificial wall built between us. Papa died of lung cancer, and he got it because he smoked. A lot. But I never saw him smoke as a kid. I must have been 16 or older the first time I ever saw him smoke, and even that was an accident--I had gone from my grandparents' place across the street to my aunt's house for some reason and Papa was there at the table with a cigarette. I think he kept it from Scott and I out of respect for my parents and the decisions they were making about how we would be raised. There were probably other things about him I never knew because they were kept from me out of respect for the way we were being reared.I appreciate the respect Papa had for my parents and their choices. Yet I feel like I missed knowing the man. My cousins who grew up with him in their life had a love and devotion for him that I didn't. And I think I missed out.
Papa was a simple man. I mean that in the most admirable and respectful way. Life, as he described it, was not complicated. There was a right way and a wrong way, and no amount of discussion or argument would change that. Not that he wouldn't discuss and argue--I loved to listen to him and Uncle Curly argue politics after dinner on a Sabbath afternoon--but the discussion wouldn't change the truth.
As I think back on his life, I have some fond memories. As a young child, he used to bounce me on his knee and sing:
To Boston, to Boston to buy a fat pig,
Home again, home again, jiggity jig.
To Boston, to Boston to buy a fat hog,
Home again, home again, joggity jog.
I have no idea where that song came from, but I remember it vividly. In fact, when I hold my niece in my lap, that song is always the first that comes to my mind.
When Michelle and I were married, we had a dance at our reception where each of the married couples there were asked to come out onto the dance floor. As the song played, the DJ would ask those married for less than five years to sit down, then ten, then 20, and so on until the couple married the longest was the last one standing, then Michelle would give a bouquet to the winning couple. We knew that it would be Grandma and Papa. When it was over, the DJ asked Papa to say a couple of things. I remember that he was so proud of the fact that he and Gram had been married for 58 years. And he made sure everyone knew that he was my grandfather.
It was the first time that I realized that he was proud of me. He'd never said so. That wasn't his style.
The last time I saw him was last fall, when he and Gram and Aunt Darlene came down for my father's surprise 60th birthday party. Michelle and I had found out a month before that we were expecting a baby, but we had decided not to tell my grandparents until they came down for the party because we wanted to tell them in person, rather than over the phone.
Papa's health had been failing for some time and when he and Grandma arrived he was walking with a cane, having to stop every few steps to catch his breath. As Michelle and I greeted them we gave them the good news, and Papa swung his cane in the air, let out a holler and did a little jig. It was as happy as I'd ever seen him. For a moment, it was as though he was young again.I'm glad that is my last memory of him. When Aunt Darlene called this morning to tell us Papa was failing, Michelle and I decided that we would drive to Vermont tomorrow, in hopes that Papa might be alert enough to meet Jackson. While I wish he'd been able to meet his great-grandson, I'm glad I didn't have to see him fail.
Across the room, Jackson is stirring. It's time for him to eat, then I'll head off to bed. I think I'll tell him about his great-grandfather--one of the men he is named after.
And I'll sing "To Boston" while he sits on my knee.
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