Dear Vivian and Suzanne,

Today is Father’s Day and you’re spending it with one of the best. The scavenger hunt you designed for him was a hit this morning, as were the cards and the “RYAN” beer bottle opener. As you reminded us, Suz, we don’t want him to forget what his real name is.

We chatted about how this would be my first Father’s Day without my dad. Suzy, you offered up the suggestion that I could just pretend Grandma Cindy was my dad. Vivi, you said Oh, great…are you gonna cry? 

Both of these reactions align perfectly with your personalities, which by the way, Grandpa Jeff had already figured out. A few days before he passed away, he shared a special moment with each of you. For the time being, you’ll remember that moment as the day when Grandpa gave you little jars of candy corn and told you how special you were.  When you get older, you’ll realize what I knew then—he was telling you goodbye.

Having a front row seat to this final exchange was both excruciating and heartwarming. Suz, you were full of affirming nods and long hugs. Viv, you kept looking back and forth from me to Gramps, part of you trying to figure it out, part of you not wanting to. When you left to go play, he told me Suz wears her heart on her sleeve, Viv holds it in. And then he told me how incredible you both were, and what a good job your dad and I were doing raising you. As it turns out, that was the last good conversation we had, and it was about the two of you.

I’m so grateful for the time you did have with Grandpa Jeff, and that you’ll remember him. Right now, your favorite memory is when you’d spend the night at their house, and he’d wake you up by stomping through the halls, chanting: Fee Fi Fo Fum. Or when he tried to convince you that the fried chicken you were enjoying was really fried mice, from the mousetrap in the garage.  

Oh, but girls, there’s so much more! So many other things that made him him—the predictable, the surprising, the gut-busting, the eyeroll-inducing, the reassuring, the maddening and the smile-worthy—things that you won’t get to experience firsthand.   But I have stories. And I know how much you love stories.

Here’s one, filed under the headline: Grandpa Jeff could not let things go. When I was in 6th grade, he really made me mad. Why? I can’t recall, but I ran to that basement phone with the 50′ cord, stretched it as far into my room as I could, and immediately called Kendra to proclaim, I HATE HIM! and a bunch of other stuff. During dinner that night, Grandpa, between helpings of potatoes, says So, you hate me, huh?  He claimed that he hadn’t been listening on another phone.  Yeah, right! And, girls, he never, ever let me forget that. Every argument we had for the next 10 years culminated in him saying, Well, at least I don’t tell my friends I hate you. I’d reply, What friends? And before I knew it, I was grounded again, and Kelsey and Emily were ringing the doorbell with a copy of “Michael Jordan: Come Fly With Me” asking Mr. Shriver, can Alyssa come over if we promise to watch a basketball movie?  (Incidentally, this tactic had about a 40% success rate.)

You can probably guess by now, Grandpa and I didn’t always get along. We butted heads—a lot! From as far back as I can remember. There’s an audio cassette tape floating out there somewhere that consists of Grandpa reading “Goldilocks & the Three Bears” with the help of Uncle Ryan, who was 2 and me, almost 4. He’d read a sentence, and Ryan and I would take turns filling in the blanks. It went something like this:

Grandpa: Goldilocks sat in Papa Bear’s chair…it was toooooo…..

Ryan: hard!

Grandpa: Good, Ryan! Then, Goldilocks sat in Mama Bear’s chair…it was toooo….

Me: (silence)

Grandpa: …it was toooooo…..

Me: (more silence)

Grandpa: (whispered prompt) soft…too soft…

Me: Goldilocks sat down carefully on Mama Bear’s chair…and it was not comfortable at all.

Grandpa: (deep sigh)

Grandpa Jeff liked to be in control, and so did I. He could be sharp with this words, and so could I. Grandma Cindy always said we were too much alike.
Ugh, don’t say that, gross! I’d reply, making sure he could hear me.
You know, I’d never dream of talking to my parents the way you talk to me, he’d say.
WHY ARE YOU TREATING ME LIKE THIS?  I’d scream.
I DON’T HAVE TO EXPLAIN MYSELF TO YOU! he’d shout.
YOU’RE NOT LISTENING TO ME! we’d both yell at the same time.

When we weren’t fighting with each other, we were making each other laugh. Crack up, actually. Because Grandpa Jeff was funny.  Once, after I’d been on his case about finding more extracurricular activities, I got this letter in the mail:

You had to be in the right frame of mind, when he decided to target you with this jokes, though. Otherwise, it could be interpreted as “stirring the pot,” “getting your goat,” or simply “starting shit”—all of which he excelled at.

Grandpa was always anxious about something.  Sometimes that manifested in obsessively wiping down the counter tops or doodling on a napkin. Often, it meant taking swigs of Pepto-Bismol before Uncle Ryan and I’s basketball games. Other times, it resulted in nervous, inappropriate chatter, like the time we were waiting for Grandma Cindy to recover from a cancer surgery.  We walked over to the cafe at KU Med Center, ordered a couple of coffees, and before the cashier had even counted back change, Grandpa had (a) asked me if it bothered me that my little brother was engaged before I was (b) asked me if I ever thought I’d get married and (c) reminded me that It’s fine if you don’t, because statistics are showing that half of all marriages end in divorce anyway. 

When I got older, and especially when I became your mom, I understood Grandpa a whole lot better. I understood what it means to love someone so much it hurts. What it feels like to look into the eyes of these human beings you created and are responsible for, and want to shield and defend them at all costs, even at the risk of overprotecting them, embarrassing them, or pissing them off.

I know what it is to suddenly discover that a person you’ve only known as your father is also someone’s husband, son, brother, peer, teacher, and—yes, teenage Alyssa—friend. You realize that he has relationships and life experiences and inside jokes and demons and personal victories that you know nothing about—and may never.

The things I do know and love about Grandpa are endless, though; I have enough stories to last a thousand bedtimes. And car rides. Because then I’d tell you about the times he’d load Ryan and I in the car on a whim.  Where are we going?!?! we’d ask.  CRAZY! he’s say.
And we’d drive out to the country and count deer.

So please don’t ever stop asking me to tell you Grandpa Jeff stories—even if it makes me cry, Viv.  I think one of the greatest gifts I can give you is to keep his story alive.

Love,
Mom