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moonriver posted on May 05, 2008
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An exchange of comments in my blog The magical moment of a Lenten moon led me to fond recollections about my father's quirks, both the lovable and the not-so-lovable ones. Some of these quirks, I had written in a still earlier blog, My father's mustache, turntable et al.
But now I want to share some more.
Papa was not very religious in the typical sense of the Catholic doctrines. But he was very spiritual in a down-home practical sense.
I remember when we were kids, on Good Fridays, he would often bring us to a high place -- a mountain, a hilltop, even just the terrace of a convent or church belfry -- to watch the sunset until it grew dark. Then he would say something very melancholy in a spiritual way: "A man dies, the world dies with him. Such sadness."
I had always thought that when he uttered these words, he merely meant the usual millennial preoccupation with Christ's passion and death, something that's quickly remedied two days later by the joy of Easter. But no. I later realized that my father was also wrestling with his own guilt complexes about the wartime horrors that he personally underwent.
He also had other simple personal rituals and sayings.
As kids, we were always required to join him for evening Angelus, while the carillon bells of a nearby campus rang a solemn tune. Up to now, I can still recite the Angelus from start to finish, beginning with "The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary, and she conceived of the Holy Spirit..." (Later, when we kids were older and no longer prayed the Angelus, Papa continued to pray it by himself, unfailingly every 6 p.m., to the tune of Bach's Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring.)
For Christmas Eve, he would gather all his four children around him in the living room, open his King James version to Luke 2:1-20, and read aloud so that even the househelp, busily preparing the midnight meal in the kitchen, could hear him.
For New Year's Eve, similar to Good Friday, he would again bring us to a high place, so we could watch the noisy celebrations ushering in the new year from a detached and silent distance. Then he would utter another memorable saying, something like, "Look at how the starlit sky seems to bathe everything under it, like it wants to help earth renew itself."
And for Easter, he would wake us up before dawn and bring us all to church to watch the beautiful early morning rites. Then he would point us to the Risen Christ's statue, and say something like, "Look at His face. Do you see how happy he is to be alive again?"
Easter Sunday was his favorite. And perhaps most appropriately, he passed away peacefully on Easter Sunday, 10 years ago.
The entire family recalls that in the 20-odd years from the day he retired to the day he suffered his fatal stroke, Papa had established a very predictable, if boring (for us), daily regimen of morning exercises with his walking cane, reading his favorite newspaper till noon, taking a long siesta after lunch while his clock radio played, and monopolizing the TV remote to make sure he gets to watch his favorite programs the entire evening, until he dozed off and retired for the night.
Day in, day out, it was always like this. Walking cane and newspaper in the morning, clock radio siesta in the afternoon, TV remote all through the evening.
When Sophie and the kids spent some years living with Papa and Mama in the old family home, Papa's "paraphernalia" became the constant target of affectionate teasing between him and Sophie, who was his favorite daughter-in-law.
When evening came, Sophie would often hide his remote, and give him his walking cane instead, reminding him that "too much TV is bad for the eyes, and in any case you need to walk outside more often."
My father would go into a childish tantrum and mock quarrel with my wife, until Sophie decided to give him back the remote. Then the two of them would break into mutual teasing and boisterous laughter, often with my kids joining in. "Aw, Mama, please don't give him the remote! We wanna watch cartoons!"
So, when Papa died and the entire family discussed how to dress him for burial, we decided that he should wear his favorite sports shirt and bermuda shorts, with his favorite hiking shoes and felt hat. Inside the coffin by his side, we placed his walking cane, his reading glasses, his clock radio, and the day's copy of his favorite newspaper.
At that point, Sophie said, "Hey, Papa has to have the remote with him. He'll frown on us forever if we take it away from him." The children were adamant because they had to have the remote. But a dead patriarch's needs took priority.
And so it went. We buried Papa with the remote in his hands. A comic pranskter up to his final gig (or is that gag?)
Jiggy was three, and watched everyone else say goodbye to his beloved Grandpa as we finally closed the casket and laid him to rest.
Years later, whenever I ask Jiggy what he remembers about the burial, he simply says:
"Grandpa took the remote with him."
So there. Hey, Papa. If you're reading this blog in your favorite Internet Cafe in the Sky, I'll have you know that your favorite grandchild and I recently climbed the mountains where you first worked as a forest ranger. They still ride native ponies like in your day.
And look here, Papa, I opened a new bottle of Lindemans. In case you're dying for a drink.
Cheers. And happy birthday. We all miss you.
Comments
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quietone said on May 05, 2008....
I am at a loss for words moon. this is a truly touching story full of love and family. I am sure your papa is smiling a grand smile. -
Fire-flower said on May 05, 2008....
Moon - that's so beautiful. I loved reading this post - thank-you. -
skald said on May 05, 2008....
He was quite a character. Good he got the remote control with him. I read this post with pleasure. What a man. I can feel that you loved him.
there is an Icelandic movie mama wants the remote control it is called. About a boy who goes all over town because his mum lost the remote control It is really funny. but the boy loved his mother too. In the end she is floating down the cities river on a blown up mattress with her remote in her hand. Well that has nothing to do with your grandpa but I just thought of this because I really liked the film.
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queenparanoia said on May 05, 2008....
that was beautiful moon... and i know your dad would have like this post about him.... =) you know my grandpa monopolize the remote too... until he just bought another one so that we would stop pestering him about it... =) -
Twylarants said on May 05, 2008....
This was beautiful, Moon. Thanks for sharing such a precious memory. -
the_infernal_optimist said on May 05, 2008....
Beautiful, moon. ((hugs)) As always, your memories retold, woven with the strong threads of family and the laughter and tears, celebrations and laments that make up the fibers of the threads, are moving and musical.
~Infernal
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lfbno7 said on May 06, 2008....
I came along for the ride too. -
silverwhisper said on May 06, 2008....
moon, your father sounds like an impressive man--one i see reflected in his son.
ed -
diabolicdame said on May 06, 2008....
What a touching post this is.. a loving tribute from a son to a father. Your papa sounds quite charming you know.. :-) -
pickersplock said on May 06, 2008....
Very beautiful, Moon.I miss my Dad too........ -
moonriver said on May 06, 2008....
quiet -- Yes, I would say that Papa should be showing a huge smile by now, especially because right here by my side is a half-empty bottle of Lindemans, his favorite.
fire-flower -- Thanks. Oh, and welcome to Soulcast.
skald -- I have a confession to make, my friend. When his coffin was finally being lowered to the ground, I checked the faces of my mother, sister, and two brothers. We were all calm and collected, no tears. Why? I think, because our grief was greatly lightened by the very graphic image of Papa, in sport shirt, bermuda shorts and hiking shoes, carrying the remote in his hands, to the very grave.
Why is it that I chuckle as you describe the Icelandic movie about a mother, a child, and their quest for a lost remote? I think there's something inherently funny about TV remotes... we touch them, they touch our lives. Lol. Thanks for dropping by, my friend.
queeniiieeeee -- I have a follow-up to this story. Unknown to everyone else in Mama's household, about a week after the funeral, Sophie bought another remote to replace the one that went to the grave with Papa. While the children watched TV, she would stay some distance away and surreptitiously shift channels, go to mute, etc.
Then she'd say, "Whoa, everyone, I think your Gramps is saying, enough TV for today..." The children would look around, maybe half-expecting their grandpa to suddenly materialize from thin air and startle them with "Booo! Did you kids miss me?" And they'd obediently go wash up and dress for bed. Lol.
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moonriver said on May 06, 2008....
twyla -- I'm glad you liked it. It's a mixed sad and funny story. By the time I finished writing it, I was chuckling and in tears at the same time... :-)
infernal -- Thank you, my friend. Whenever we siblings get together, we talk about Papa like he was still sitting with us, at the head of the table. We remember his pranks and comic sayings... :-)
lenny -- Hey, you.
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moonriver said on May 06, 2008....
ed -- My father had his dark side and deep flaws too. This isn't the time for me to dwell on this, but let me just say that when we his children were in our teens, we began to see his flaws and even make fun of them. He was a complex man who struggled all his life to transcend his own physical and emotional burdens.
ddame -- Yup, in his prime, my Papa was a rakish but shy provincial rogue. Thanks for the kind words, my friend.
pickers -- Thank you. There are three dates each year when I open a bottle of wine in my father's memory: on his birthday, on his death anniversary, and on All Souls Day. It has become my own personal ritual. Once I offered a bottle of Mama's home-made wine. Papa wasn't around to drink, of course, so I consumed all of it for him. Lol.
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quietone said on May 06, 2008....
moon ~ oh that little story you told queenie..... OMG how funny that must have been, and the looks on the kids faces must have been priceless! I bet for sure papa had a great chuckle himself out of that one!! -
skald said on May 06, 2008....
Some how this and the post bring a smile on my face. It is a smile, because I identify with this story. I see your grand dad with the remote before me and I understand why you all were pleased that he went like that in the coffin. Thanks Moon. -
silverwhisper said on May 07, 2008....
moon, at the end of the day, the struggle to transcend our burdens is the story behind the human experience, i've always felt. :>
ed -
moonriver said on May 28, 2008....
quiet -- Yeah, that was a neat little trick. It was an effective "time-for-bed" trick for a couple of nights, but since Sophie is such a giggly-girl comedian in situations like those, her trademark laughter soon gave her away. The kids glanced back at her, and saw the new remote in her hands. Lol.
skald -- Yeah, I smile too whenever I remember how we "sent him off to the great beyond." In recent days, we (friends and colleagues) also laid to rest a dear respected, beloved elder. Like my father, he also lived a long full life. It was a good death, and a funeral that gives closure.
ed -- Wise words, my friend. And the truth. But the masks we wear, for others to see, can so effectively hide those tremendous struggles that wrack our insides from day to day. My father wore his masks well, but we his kids gradually saw through them as we grew up.
Do you suppose people here at SC can see through my own masks? Lol.
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