Painful Remembrance

July 25th is never an easy day for me. At least, not in the past 37 years it hasn't been. You see, today is the anniversary of my grandfather's death. And I still cry after all these years...

I once wrote a poem entitled Grandpa's Shadow. I still think of myself in those terms. Even now. My Grandpa Currey was bigger than life to this, then, shy and introverted child and there was no denying that I was his favorite. My cousin Deb controlled Grandma's heartstrings and the string to Grandpa was tied around my little finger.

It's not hard to understand really. We had so much in common. Or maybe I just developed interests that pleased him. I've never quite been sure on that score. We spent countless hours together in the garden or the rosebeds or the berry patch. I can remember snuggling next to him in his giant recliner to watch the news. I'd be there in the early morning to join him in a cup of 'coffee' as Grandma prepared his shot of insulin. (Hey, there's something to this name of mine. I've been a 6am or earlier riser all of my life!) I would surmise that much of my love of coffee, strawberries, and roses stems from this early relationship.

One of my fondest remembrances is of sitting on the massive counter at Chenowith Motors, where my Grandpa was parts manager, my uncle the chief mechanic, and my the aunt was the secretary. There was a phenomenal book that had hundreds of pages, each section in a different color, with lines and lines of numbers referring to parts and their locations or order numbers. My grandpa would rattle off a color, a long number string of 10 or 12 digits, and I'd proceed to sit there, find it, and hold my finger on the spot until he returned. Then, he'd call back to my uncle and tell him what row and bin held the part. People standing there would be in awe. I think I was maybe six. I didn't care that they were impressed...I cared that Grandpa was pleased and I felt like I was helping. I guess, in a way, I was.

In 1969, that age of innocence ended. I awoke on a steamy morning to find my mother fully dressed in dress clothes, not her usual summer housedress. I instantly knew that something was wrong. I assumed Grandpa had been hospitalized again for either his heart or his sugar. The last thing I was prepared to hear was of his death. A stroke in the middle of the night claimed him. At 13 I faced my first funeral that I could remember.

Some good did come from that pain. I was better prepared for my Grandmother's death 15 months later and the coroner's report some time later that detailed how she had taken her life. I was able to be there, hold my Mother, and face her pain as an adult, despite my numberical age. And, perhaps, I could relate to the depth of despair my Grandma had experienced by losing this man, her obvious soulmate. By the time I was 16, I would stand strong when my girlfriend's 13 year old sister died a slow and painful death.

Although it's painful to remember all this, I have to be happy too. My Grandpa shaped me in ways he could never have imagined. I believe that the numerous years I spent in and around hospitals due to his health issues contributed to my choice of careers. I was drawn to labs and what they did. In '66 when Grandpa had his lung removed to cancer, I experienced the state of the art Kettering Hospital. I was hooked. He never lived to know this, but I suspect he would be beyond proud.

I can still hear his voice and I can still conjure his image in my mind's eye. Good thing, because the tears in my baby blues make it difficult to see this screen clearly. What's hardest? Never having the chance to say goodbye. The last time I saw him was on his 65th birthday, 10 days prior. I know I told him 'I love you' and said goodbye then. But I never suspected it would be the final farewell.

Roy Clifford Currey 7/15/1904-7/25/1969

Dawn

'To live in the hearts, we leave behind, is not to die.'