Love You a Bunch a Bunch, Pop-Pop

"The skylark was born before all beings and before the earth itself. Its father died of illness when the earth did not yet exist. He remained unburied for five days until the skylark, ingenious of necessity, buried its father in its own head....."
Salman Rushdie, The Jaguar Smile

"We might, in that indeterminate period they call mourning, be in a submarine, silent on the ocean's bed, aware of the depth charges, now near and far, buffeting us with recollections."
Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

Word of the Day:
presentimiento- literally- pre-feeling= premonition, feeling

After a long struggle with cancer, my grandfather passed away on Tuesday. I immediately felt the weirdness of someone so strong, large and permanent- seeming being gone. I had known for months that this was going to happen, but I was taken aback at how fiercely I felt the news. I'm going home for my sister's graduation in a month, and I'd had this idea that I'd be able to see him again. The breaking of my illusion of control shattered me. As did the idea that one side of my childhood had really drawn to a close. You'd think that after over a cumulative year of living in Latin America I would have picked up on the "si Dios quiere" (Godwilling) mindset, but it turns out my East Coast type A personality is pretty ingrained. And hates thinking about death.

Immediately, I wanted to be with my family. I had a crazy urge to just show up and hop on the next plane home. The distance between us, which has been blunted over time, came sharply into relief. Even though everyone told me that I shouldn't, I felt guilty for not being there. My love of running off to experience life elsewhere has the unfortunate side effect of me being less available for my loved ones. I might be able to bequeath them good stories, but I'm not there to give out hugs or cook dinner after a long day spent at the hospital. I felt guilty for not being able to help my parents more with daily life, for not calling Pop-Pop more, for not knowing what to say, for fearing "How are you?".

The one thing I knew was that I couldn't stay in San Miguelito. I've always found that movement is healing and I knew I was going to lash out at people if I stayed. And I didn't want to be a self-pitying wreck here around people I knew, people with far more difficult daily dramas. So I circled back around in the boat to Granada, numbing myself with yet another overnight journey and tried to lose myself in the tangled stalls of the market. Feeling emptied, I went on to Managua, holed up in almost 1st world luxury for a bit (the hot showers helped a lot), and tried not to feel guilty for being self indulgent. Getting to skype with my family was worth it. We reminisced and joked and it was almost as if I were there, if only for a little while. Miracles of wi-fi. A bunch of my friends happened to be  there too, and they helped far more than they realized. It probably seems redundant to note, but most people in Peace Corps are extremely nice.

After Pop-Pop passed, it was as if everything that was tied up with his life came loose and tumbled into my head. There was a specific geography to these recollections. As the saying goes, the past is another country, a sunny landscape not yet marred by Hurricane Sandy. My memories of Pop-Pop are entwined with a child's love of being at the beach. Going around different places in Spring Lake/the northern end of the Jersey shore, the North End pavilion at the board walk, the waves, the salt water pool, learning to body surf, watching the draw bridge with the boats going out to sea, going to Saint Catherine's, going to the park in Spring Lake. Eating fish and waffle fries at Klein's. Eating shrimp cocktail with horseradish sauce, Aunt Debbie's salmon with dill, grapes, cheddar cheese, salami on ritz crackers in the family room, which he built and meticulously wired with speakers over the years. Playing bocce in the backyard. My cousins and I jamming ourselves onto the swing bench. Looking at his drawings, going through his carpentry shop. Playing in my father's old bedroom, still decorated with 1970s plaid blankets. Goofy sing alongs with the aunts and cousins. Remembering the play house he constructed for my sisters and I, which we named "Ginger and Pickles" out of an old electrical box and which was subsequently reincarnated as a home, general store and restaurant.

Pop-Pop and I drew such different conclusions from the world we were presented with, but I think we were both people who are deeply curious about the world in front of us. I remember studying the books he had about the history of the New Jersey shore, and reading his "Discovery" magazines when I went over to his house. I think in many ways he encouraged my nerdy love of reading and armchair adventures, which over time have catapulted me into even more dramatic, real life adventures.

This flock of images has taken up a stubborn residency in my head, and it's going to take time to process everything, without making a hagiography, but to think a bit about what Pop-Pop's life has meant for us, and what his absence means. It will take time to reconcile that these parts of my childhood were in the past but that they didn't need to stop influencing my present semi-autonomous, wandering, stumbling into adulthood.

All this has reminded me though of how many wonderful communities I am a part of, how infinite is the care we can show each other, how connected family can be even across big distances. There are upsides to everything.