Growing old, looking forward to the future
Growing old, looking forward to the future
My grandfather moved into an assisted living home last week.
It was time.
He's gotten a little weaker, the stairs in his two-story home becoming more difficult to climb every day. He's also craving more company.
The news made everyone in our family sad, bringing us one step closer to the reality that our grandpa is aging.
My grandfather doesn't see it that way.
He wanted to go. In fact, he was excited about it. He already had a game plan. For starters, he said he was going to be careful about picking and choosing his friends because he didn't want to get stuck with a talker. He also pointed out that there were more "babes" than men and that there's a group of women who play pinochle, a card game that he now says he wants to pick up again. I'm sure the "babes" in the group motivated that decision.
And that's my grandfather in a nutshell.
For as long as I've known him, he has always had a positive attitude about life, and particularly, about growing old.
He's not one to sulk at home alone or complain about certain ailments. Nor does he indulge other people his age who do complain. Whenever a friend or relative would grumble about not feeling well or being lonely, my grandfather would respond by swatting the air in disgust, folding his hands in his lap and turning away. Then he'd launch into his latest trip to the doctor and how great his cholesterol is despite his daily helpings of eggs and bacon.
He's always seemed invincible to me.
At 91, he has survived five floods, including one in which he carried his 90-year-old mother on his back to the second floor. He fought in World War II, which claimed the lives of his two youngest brothers. He amazed doctors when he walked into the hospital with what he thought was a bellyache but turned out to be a gall bladder attack. And he lost his wife, "my Lydia," of 40-plus years to cancer. She was only 63.
And still, he has never lost his unique sense of humor. Being with him has always been an adventure.
When my sister and I were finally old enough to legally drink, my grandfather took us to his hangout: the Polish Club. Every day at 2 o'clock, he'd drive over to the Club, sidle up to the bar and order a shot and a beer for $1.50. He's the oldest surviving member of the Club, a fact that he proudly reminds us of every time we see him.
Going to the Polish Club was like a rite of passage for my sister and me. We had been to the club once before for one of his birthday parties, but this was different. This time, we were walking in as beer drinkers. And this felt special to us. We felt like we were granted VIP access to this secret club whose goings on had always been a mystery in my mind.
On arrival, my grandfather swiped his card at the entrance — who knew security was so tight here — and we filed in behind him as we entered the dismal club. My grandpa grabbed a stool and we followed suit. The bartender slammed down a shot and a glass of beer in front of him as well as a cup of dice. My grandfather rolled the dice on the bar, swatted the air in disgust, grumbled something under his breath and signed his name on a piece of paper. My sister and I looked at each other, "What the heck just happened?" We decided it was better left a mystery.
It was like we rolled into the place with the Godfather. I marveled at how everyone treated my grandpa with so much kindness and respect. My grandfather proudly introduced us to everyone in the club, except for the blonde bombshell at the end of the bar whom my grandfather repeatedly told us was a "beast." We slung back Yuenglings while my grandfather dished the dirt on various members. We laughed until our sides hurt.
These days I rarely get back home to Pennsylvania to see him. Most of the family has moved away. But this past September, I returned home for the first time since that trip to the Polish Club five years ago. My parents and I drove over to my grandpa's house and found him in his usual spot, sitting on the front porch, legs crossed and wearing a cap on his head. When he saw me, he smiled, took my face in his hands like he always does and said, "Hey tomata," as he planted a kiss on my cheek.
We spent the next hour or so sitting on his porch, relaxing and chatting. I snapped a few photos of him and my dad, my mom, me. It would be the last time I would see my grandfather doing what he loves most: porch sitting. Looking back on that moment now, it's bittersweet. But knowing my grandfather, he's already moved on to schmoozing with the "babes" over pinochle.
Contact Carla Kucinski Seward at 373-7319 or carla@gotriad.com.
