My Grandfather Passed Today
At ninety-nine years old, my grandfather was, without a doubt, the most amazing man I’ve ever known.
Anyone who can make it to a few months shy of a century would surely have a million stories to tell, but my Papí would’ve told those stories better than most.
I knew my grandfather well, but with only thirty years and change between us, I only got to know him at the end.
Before my grandfather passed, I knew him as a remarkable man. As children, My sister and I spent every Saturday, and half of every Sunday at his house. During that time, I was often giving my grandmother more trouble than she ever could’ve deserved, and yet I only saw him lose his temper with me one time in all those years.
I remember it clearly, and I clearly deserved it.
My Papí was a fine example, showing me from early on that getting old could be a terrific time in one’s life. He was always vibrant, with a smile that never faded, pockets that never cleared of candy, and a handful of old jokes that somehow never grew tired.
Once my sister and I were old enough to stay home by ourselves, the Saturday trips slowed and then stopped altogether. The visits with our grandfather did not. Papí loved a good bet, and he had a standing appointment at the horse races every Thursday evening. Often, he would stop by our house for dinner on his way, and sometimes, I was lucky enough to leave with him.
Three things would happen without fail: Papí would send me down to the arcade with five dollars so that he could sneak an extra beer, he would tell me that a $30 bet was only $3 (while I pretended to believe him), and he would place a bet for me, then tell me I had a winning ticket, whether or not I did.
Needless to say, I loved going to the track with my Papí.
I remember the first time I introduced him to Daisy. It was on Christmas Eve, ten years ago. I’d spent the whole day trying to articulate how amazing he was, and forecasting how much she was going to love him. By the time we got to my grandparent’s house, I thought that perhaps I’d oversold the performance that a ninety-year old man was capable of giving.
But of course I hadn’t.
Papí came in the house still hopped up from the Las Posadas on Olvera Street, wearing a smile on his face, throwing candy from his pockets, and one joke after another, rolling from his mouth. My grandfather had officiated the festivals on the street for a few decades, and at eighty-nine, was still a few years from his retirement.
A few short months later, the city of Los Angeles threw him a birthday bash, and the mayor handed him a plaque for his unfailing service.
When I first started writing, Papí was the first person I told. I was unsure of where I was going, and I wanted to keep things quiet. My grandfather was the mischievous sort and I thought he’d delight in keeping the secret.
And he did.
Every Saturday, when I went to visit, Papí would first ask how things were going (he expected the entire process from idea to shelf to take somewhere between two weeks and a month, and never quite understood what was taking so long), then proudly declare that he hadn’t said a thing to anyone.
Coincidentally, today was my coming out. I had a belated Father’s Day with my own dad, and showed him everything I’ve been working on for the last nine months. I gave him a slender binder filled with children’s stories, and showed him all eighty pounds of the novel that at this point more closely resembles a carpet bomb of syllables. As our perfect day was ending, I got a phone call from my mom.
My Papí was gone; my grandfather passed.
Thank you for everything Papí, you gave me a shining example to follow. I love you, I’ll miss you, and I promise to always make you proud.
Writer Dad
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